Erik took her past the tables and the police taking notes, and led her out onto a balcony. The spring night had turned brisk, and she shivered. Erik took off his coat and put it over her shoulders. The moon was just a sliver, hanging barely above the indigo horizon.
“Sorry I ruined your big night.”
“Who says you ruined it? I’ve always wondered if I was good at punching someone. Thanks. It was on my bucket list.”
She sighed. “I guess in a way, it kind of bookends things.”
“How?”
“We started with the police in McDonalds, and we’re ending with the police at the Chautauqua. It’s fitting.” And over. How could it be over? Six weeks had never flown so fast. Every conflicting emotion roared in her. He was going away. And she’d done nothing to make him want to stay with her. And when or if he did return, he’d have no reason to come back to her, as she’d given him no indication she cared. Every interaction up to now she’d kept professional, cool and distant. So mistaken!
He picked up a stray fallen blossom from atop the railing of the balcony and twiddled it in his fingers. “Before I go, there’s something I need to talk with you about.”
Maybe so, but before he left, there was something she needed to show him.
Up onto her tiptoes she went, and she leaned in close to his cheek. “For defending my honor,” she said, and came a hair’s breadth from placing a kiss.
But before her lips could brush that smooth shaven olive skin—
“Erik Gunnarson. There you are, old buddy!” Out through the balcony doors blustered none other than Justin Fox. Lisette fell from her tiptoes instantly and staggered back against the railing, which she gripped to steady herself. How in the world?
Jerkface was the last person she expected to see at this event. Or ever. Her stomach leapt into her throat, and she couldn’t breathe.
Justin laid a heavy hand on Erik’s shoulder and patted his back with a loud thud.
“Man! I haven’t seen you since CU. Go fighting Buffaloes! What’s it been? Three years? Wow. You’ve changed—and not for the worse, I’d have to say. What’d you do, get a de-geekifier to fix up your image? You used to be such a dork.” Justin guffawed. Alone. Erik just looked at him, eyes hard.
“But the smartest dork in the whole business school, I’ll give you that. I hear you’ve made quite a name for yourself, even getting set up for this awards ceremony tonight amongst all the bigwigs of bigwiggery. Way to go, buddy. Never thought I’d see the day when such a dork would make such a splash. Well, nice to see you again. Oh, and hi, Liz. Remember me?”
Lisette didn’t respond. She didn’t even look at Jerkface, but trained her eyes on Erik, who she suddenly realized she didn’t know at all.
At her car, she gripped the handle. She’d dashed away before she could catch her breath. How could he do this to her? How could he deceive her like this?
He’d been in business school. At CU Boulder. With her. At the same time Justin the Jerkface was there. Did he know her then? Suddenly, she got a creepy crawly sensation up her spine, like women who are being stalked must feel all day long.
Fingers all jumbled, her key wouldn’t go into the lock, and she stomped her foot in frustration. Erik Gunnarson might not even speak Icelandic, or be from Iceland. Village outside Reykjavik? Whatever. The whole persona might be an invention.
She’d get in her Corolla and push the pedal to the floor. Speed would let her vent. If she could just strap on skis and hit that black diamond run…
Finally her key went into the lock. When she opened the door, Erik’s jacket sleeve snagged. She still wore it. Dang it.
With a groan, she slammed and locked the door, then turned on her heel to return the coat. She could shove it into his arms, tell him to stay away from her, that the police were right there and she’d demand a restraining order.
“Lisette!” Staccato footfalls came across the concrete. Erik, in just his shirtsleeves and black bowtie jogged her direction. “You ran away before I could explain—”
“Look. I don’t know what game you’re playing. You went to school with me? You knew Justin?”
Do not cry. Do not cry.
Hot tears welled in her eyes. They’d darken the tops of her cheeks soon, turn her into a mascara raccoon. A blonde mascara raccoon. She hiccupped.
“It’s not what you must be thinking.” His accent got even lighter than it ever had been.
“If this whole thing is a sham, Erik, if you didn’t need language help in the first place, you shouldn’t have hired me. I performed no service on your behalf, and you received no benefit.” All that had happened was she’d wasted the past six weeks of her life, and his. On this farce. She swatted at her cheeks with the backs of her hands. “I can’t in good conscience go on any longer with this business relationship if it’s been a fraud. No services were rendered. No payment is due. I am terminating our contract.”
Her voice caught in her throat. She blinked a hundred times fast, and with each bat of her eyelashes, more tears spilled. She couldn’t see to put her key in the lock again.
“Wait, Lisette. It’s not like that. I never meant to deceive you. I just—”
“You just deceived me. That’s what you did.” She finally got her door open again and tried to get into the car with a semblance of grace, despite the narrow cut of her long green gown. “Have a nice trip to Florence.”
She bolted out of the parking lot at a respectable speed for a Corolla.
Lisette would probably never see him again.
“Hello? Ah, nii hau.” Lisette took Mr. Chen’s phone call. The din of a score of short-walled cubicles made it hard to hear, and the fizzle of the fluorescent lighting made it hard to feel alive. “Xièxiè. Thank you for calling Pannebaker Capital.” She took down his order for sixty hours of consulting service from the Beijing group then hung up to take the next call.
It was Aunt Corky.
“I tracked you down. You’ve been AWOL for three weeks. What the heck happened?”
Lisette slumped in her chair. She’d dreaded this explanation. It made her sound like a quitter, a failure. “I’m sorry. I’ve been working. At Pannebaker.”
“You don’t mean to say you went through with the agreement?”
Lisette sighed. “Actually, I insisted. Immerse just didn’t work out like I hoped.” Nothing had. Erik was gone. He’d called, but she couldn’t bear to answer. When Lisette thought about him, she got a lump the size of a volleyball at the base of her throat.
“So he was fluent in English and still hired you? That says something. I don’t know what, but something.”
It said he’d noticed her because of her looks in college and was just as shallow as every other man she’d ever met. Erik Gunnarson was not different like she’d imagined. He hadn’t seen through her disguise to her heart or her personality. He’d just seen past it because he knew all along and was waiting for her to shed it. Then he’d pounce. And come to think of it, it all probably worked in his manipulative favor. He’d act altruistic, going for the ugly duckling then gloat that he’d turned her into a swan.
Jerk. This was why she refused to take any of his dozens of calls from Florence, from Brussels, from Constantinople. What could either of them possibly have to say to each other that wouldn’t cut like a knife?
“Want to go to lunch and talk it over?”
Lisette hadn’t felt like eating in weeks.
“I guess this just shocks me. I thought for sure you’d win him over once and for all that night. When I didn’t hear from you, I figured you were busy going all lovebirds on me, that you skipped town and went to Florence with him.”
Familiar tears threatened to spill again. She shouldn’t talk about it. It was too tender. “I guess I was wrong.”
“No. He liked you.”
Finally, Lisette let loose and told her everything.
“What? So he fell in love with you in college?”
“I don’t know. Either way, I didn’t
know him.” And she didn’t now, either. “But if he did see me, and like me, it was based on nothing. And Immerse? He only looked me up and hired me because of my looks way back when.”
“What’s so wrong with that? And besides, he did get to know you.” Aunt Corky’s calm rebuttals didn’t make much headway. He didn’t like the real Lisette. “Look, I saw the paper. This guy, as Entrepreneur of the Year, took an assault charge for you. That’s at least worth taking one of his calls.”
Aunt Corky didn’t understand. It was over. The three weeks she’d sat at this desk fielding calls had crawled, especially because after ten-hour days she’d worked nights closing up shop at Immerse, painting eggshell white over robin egg blue as her final farewell.
It was like a funeral. Giving back the key was like handing over her dream. Her dead dream.
And a new one hadn’t been born in its place.
Just before noon, good old Mr. Mort Bartholomew set a stack of papers on Lisette’s desk then sat down on the edge of it.
“We can’t say enough good about your work here, Liz.” He bore the look of a proud father, which job Lisette suspected he’d been practicing up over the past three years. It made her skin crawl. Six weeks remained until Mom and Mort’s marriage. Mom was already walking around wearing the huge engagement ring he’d given her the Monday Lisette started working at Pannebaker. Amanda Bartholomew. It sounded so strange. Not right. And… Mort. How could a guy whose name meant “death” in French be the right man to join their family?
One thing was certain, though: he could not be allowed to go on calling her Liz.
“Since you came, Liz, the central Asian call volume has gone up by fifty percent. We want to give you a little financial bonus, say, to the tune of…” He named a round number, with more than one round numeral at the end of it. Lisette’s mouth dropped open. It was the precise amount she needed to pay off the student loan debt, as well as the debt to her mother—well, to Mort himself. Weird. But okay. Whatever. At least that albatross wouldn’t be hanging around her neck anymore. If Mort wanted to pay off her debt to himself, that was fine by her. He had them both by the nose anyway.
She stared at her surroundings for a moment, mulling.
Maybe Mom had been right. The nonsense of running Immerse had dragged her down financially and slowed her progress professionally. She could have been earning big dollars here at Pannebaker over the past three years. Her unproductive detour left her with a net zero in her bank account and a net zero socially, while she might have missed some cute Pannebaker intern or dashing executive who was on the way up in the company.
“I’m sorry, Mort. I can’t accept that bonus.” It wouldn’t be right. There was a good chance Mort was only doing it to impress Mom. And regardless of the fact that Mom owned a large share in Pannebaker, Lisette didn’t feel right about taking a payout. “It’s not fair to the other workers. They’ve tried at least as hard as I have. We’re a team.”
“Suit yourself. I only get generous once,” he said aloud for the whole call center to hear. Then, in confidential tones, he leaned into Lisette and whispered, “Unless I can be persuaded otherwise.” He was too close to her ear. Much too close.
His hot breath hit her neck. He wore far too much cologne.
“I’m not very persuasive, Mr. Bartholomew. Never tried the debate team or anything.” Discomfort made her squirm.
Mort placed a heavy hand on her shoulder. She froze, staring straight ahead at her computer monitor. It blinked, like a warning light. The giant hand rested there a moment, then crept downward, down her chest, and toward where it absolutely should not go.
Lisette shot backward in her rolling chair. Was he hitting on her? No. He was harassing her. She surged to her feet and marched toward the bathroom, mustering as much grace as she could, pressing her skirt toward her knees as she went. Ugh. He’d forced her mom into an engagement, and now this? Ugh. Lecher.
Mr. Bartholomew took long strides and kept up with her. “No, but your work has been very persuasive. We could use a girl like you,” he said in a tone that indicated he substituted the plural pronoun for the singular pronoun.
“Sorry. In fact, I think I hear my mother calling.” Lisette pulled her phone from her pocket and ducked into the ladies’ room. “Oh, hi, Mom. Yes. I was just talking to Mr. Bartholomew. He thinks things might not be working out with me. No, yeah. I think I might be fired.”
The door between them shut.
Lisette hugged her knees to her chest, surrounded by sofa cushions. Her hair and face were a mess. Well, not as messy as when she messed them up on purpose, but still, a mess. Scents from the glowing vanilla hazelnut candle filled the apartment, evidence of Lisette’s attempt to find comfort any way she could.
Stacked around her were remnants of her old-school lifestyle choice: she still subscribed to the daily paper. Something about the smell of newsprint and turning the pages just spelled luxury, even if she’d mostly used it over the past week to read her horoscope (“Rain in your future. Get an umbrella.”) and circled help wanted ads in the classifieds.
Erik’s corporation sent a check. Although she was tempted to refuse it, an accompanying letter from a secretary named Hans convinced her.
Mr. Gunnarson pays all his debts in full. While there was some misunderstanding at your professional parting— No kidding —he insists on paying for the six weeks’ time during which he employed you. So that there will be no arguments, he pays you for your time, since he says you refuse to admit any service was rendered. Darn straight. Then there was something about an honest day’s work and an honest day’s pay.
Honest. Pah! But she figured he’d keep insisting no matter what, so she deposited it—and used it to pay off the student loan and Mort Bartholomew to the very last cent.
Unfortunately, even the payoff didn’t help her mom’s situation. As expected, Mort had built in a clause to keep Mom in shackles. Unless a comet struck Bartholomew’s McMansion in the Newlands neighborhood and turned him into cosmic dust, the wedding would go through next week.
Her mother had lost fifteen pounds and looked skeletal. They’d refitted the wedding gown twice and would have to again. It wasn’t good.
If only there was something Lisette could do to stop this unholy alliance. Even telling Mom about Mort’s unwelcome advances hadn’t done enough damage. It was like Mom was in a scary trance. That, or she’d simply lost hope.
With no money of her own now, Lisette couldn’t hire an attorney to look for an escape clause. Things looked horribly bleak.
She turned back to her paper.
Marriage licenses, depressing. Births, even more of a bummer, now that her own prospects of future motherhood looked almost nil. Ah, police blotter. That was more like it. She settled back to relish it.
The newspaper couldn’t keep up with all the police items and printed things backdated by about a month. Scanning, she saw six DUIs, a domestic assault, two underage consumption charges, and—oh, fabulous—Erik Gunnarson, age 31, Reykjavik, Iceland, assault.
A laugh popped forth from within her. It was just so perfect. The man of her dreams—even if she couldn’t see him in real life, she could see him in the police blotter. Lisette knew how to pick them.
Granted, she’d seen (and been the cause of) the assault, and she knew the circumstances were mitigating. But still…
The doorbell rang, and a courier handed Lisette a piece of certified mail. Puzzled, Lisette signed for it, her eyes groping for a glimpse of the return address, praying it wasn’t from the IRS with an audit for Immersed. That would be the icing on the wedding cake.
Humphrey and Grant, Attorneys at Law. Oh, great. She was being subpoenaed for Erik’s trial. Fantastic. The courier left, and Lisette tore it open.
Before she read far, she couldn’t suppress her squeal of joy and relief. She raced to the phone and called her mom.
“Mom! Mom! There’s no need to worry. He’s done it! His lawyers found a way out of the marriage of death!”
>
She heard her mom drop to the floor and a sob escape her throat. Lisette burst into full-on tear-gushing herself, and they promised to meet up later with Mom’s attorney to go over the details.
Dancing around the apartment with glee, she shut the paper and shuffled the sections, setting them on her coffee table. She was dying to go visit Aunt Corky and Uncle Charlie to tell them the good news, but they’d gone to Santa Fe to visit their grandbabies.
The celebration in her soul dictated that she had to get out of here.
In a matter of minutes, she was dressed and heading downtown toward CU campus, decked out in her cutest spring clothes, feeling festive in heels and her hair in a ponytail. May in the Rockies looked like hope. The late spring blossoms had fallen, and all the trees had officially budded. She could use a walk through the sculpture garden and a taco from Alferd Packer’s—her favorite celebration food ever since college. Even though CU campus was the site of Erik’s first offense, she determined to face down her bad feelings and go there. Besides, she did love those tacos.
But when she got to campus, there wasn’t anywhere to park. Duh. First week of May. Graduation. Her buoyancy deflated. Bummer. She really craved that taco.
Suddenly, a spot opened up. With a deft hand, she wheeled into it—speedy as an Erik Gunnarson move.
Taco of joy in hand, she strolled past the Koelbel Building and toward the sculpture garden. Ah, business. She’d doused herself with it for years, longing to prove herself, use her talents, succeed. And where had it landed her? Back here. Jobless. With a bank balance the same as when she’d started grad school: zero. No debts, but no profits to show for it.
Well, not many. Other than a good education and a boatload of life experience. Maybe a whole shipyard of boatloads. And her language skills had improved, speaking all day every day with the clients. She’d learned quite a bit about how businesses work. And, yeah, even more about human nature, but most of all about herself.
Immersed: Book 6 in The Ripple Effect Romance Series (A Ripple Effect Romance Novella) Page 11
