Renee Simons Special Edition

by Renee Simons

  "What happened?"

  They walked to the head of the table where Mrs. Willis had set their places with crystal, silver and fine china.

  He shrugged. "I tried talking to the contractors and was shown the door."

  "The direct approach doesn't seem to work very well with those people."

  He pulled out a chair for Jordan before seating himself. "Probably a clue to how much they have to hide."

  Chapter 4

  Jordan looked at Ethan over her coffee cup. "What was it like, being a stockman?"

  Dinner had been filled with good food and easy conversation. Replete and relaxed, neither wanted to end the interlude.

  "About like you’d expect - hot, dusty, long days, longer nights, floods during the wet, willy-willies during the dry.”

  “Willy-willies?”

  He thought for a moment. “Dust devils.”

  She nodded. “Tell me more.”

  “I started out as a jackaroo...”

  She placed a hand on his to stop him. Her palm tingled at the contact. She tried to focus. “Which is...?”

  “A ringer...”

  “C’mon, Caldwell,” she said with a grin. “Play fair.”

  He laughed at her mischievous tone and nodded. “A rookie cowhand.” He paused, waiting for her reaction.

  “Go on,” she said. “Slowly.”

  “In my third year I became a drover - that’s the foreman or ramrod of a plant consisting of four hands, a cook and a horsetailer.”

  She nodded. “I get it. You bossed an outfit with four cowboys, a cook - that’s easy - and a horsetailer? What’s that?”

  One eyebrow quirked upward and her sly smile stirred his pulse. Having revived her sense of humor, he was tempted to find out what else he could bring to life, starting with her luscious mouth. He forced himself to concentrate on her question.

  “That is a wrangler, a guy who tended the horses we rode during the muster...”

  “Muster...you said that before...” Her brow wrinkled as she tried to decipher the reference. “It’s a roundup,” she said finally with a smile of triumph. “Right?”

  “Spot on.”

  “Spot on,” she repeated, with a touch of awe in her tone. “God, I love the way you talk. Okay. Continue.”

  “That’s all. Three years running, we led mobs overland to market. These days, they mostly use road trains, so maybe it's a good thing I switched to architecture."

  She raised one eyebrow. "A mob’s a herd of cows, right? What’s a road train?"

  “A semi with multiple carriers for hauling livestock to market."

  "Much better," she said with a nod of satisfaction. "Trucks are trucks and cowboys I understand. How did Kevin get here?"

  "After the second muster, he came over and settled down with Lacey."

  "Did they meet here?"

  "No. After driving a mob - a herd - to market, we laid over in Birdsville. I don't suppose you've heard of the place."

  "I've seen photos."

  "Then you know it's dehydrated and nearly deserted most of the time. We came off a muster one time and walked into the hotel. This vision of loveliness stepped behind the counter to take our names. Kevin was a goner."

  She felt a familiar stirring that she refused to acknowledge as jealousy. "You sound a little bit in love, yourself."

  He fixed her with a potent stare that sent a shiver through her. "I've never been in love."

  She looked for a safer topic. "How did you make the leap from mustering cows to designing buildings?"

  "Just got tired of the cattle business. I'd mucked around some with art as a kid. Architecture seemed to have a future if I could create a following. I came here to go to school and never left."

  As she poured the last of the coffee from the silver pot she asked, "May I see your blueprints for the project?"

  "Why?"

  "To help me understand what's going on with you and VolTerre."

  While he went for the plans, Jordan carried the centerpiece of yellow tulips to the sideboard. She wanted to understand, to help, even though helping had brought back a past filled with loss and broken dreams.

  He spread out the plans, using candlesticks and silverware to hold down the corners. With elbows on the table, they knelt on their chairs and leaned over the charts, close enough to feel each other's warmth.

  Time drifted by unheeded as he explained floor plans and elevations, deciphered schematics for newly-developed fastening devices he'd ordered. His fingers traced drawings of the buildings as they would have looked when completed.

  "The people living there would’ve had light and fresh air and a feeling of open spaces. The kids could run and play without their mothers worrying. The older folks would have had their place in the sun as well."

  He looked at her. "You can see it, can't you?"

  "What?"

  "The dream. It's there.” He pointed. “In your eyes."

  "Your belief makes it real."

  He leaned into her. Something warm pulsed through her, as though a second heart had begun beating beneath her ribs. The sensation was so powerful she thought he must feel it, too. Once again instinct warned her to pull away, but she remembered his arms carrying her to bed as soft words soothed her fears, remembered the comfort his strength had brought, and stayed where she was. Another smile lit his eyes as he turned back to the drawing.

  He continued to talk, softly, almost tenderly, as though describing the woman he loved. His voice held an intensity, a tightly leashed passion that glittered in his eyes. His long, slender, artist's fingers moved lightly over the sheets of Bristol board and parchment as he pointed out features that were a source of pride. Her annoying inner voice wondered how those fingers would feel tracing a path across her skin.

  To distract herself she concentrated on the sound of his voice - deep, smooth, with an accent part lazy drawl, part twang and altogether fascinating in the way he clipped some words short and drew others out, getting every bit of sound out of them. She wanted to keep him talking.

  "The accident must have been a terrible blow."

  He nodded. "Changes to my designs. Substandard materials. I have to find out why and who was responsible."

  "So you've been trying to see the contractors."

  "To inspect the revised plans and the debris.” He shook his head. “I can't get close enough or spend enough time examining the site to find anything useful."

  Of course you can't, she argued silently. They'll never let you get to the truth. They've set you up to take the fall. I'd swear to that.

  Conlon had been on the wrong side of the law in the old days in Philly, along with her father and uncle and their assorted cohorts. Only when her world came crashing down around her had she understood that. Now that Conlon had apparently moved his operation to Boston, Ethan had been caught up. As innocent as she and her mother had been all those years ago, he'd been caught in the fallout, just as they had been. Was there something she could do to swing the balance his way?

  * * *

  She thought the answer might be hiding in the offices of VolTerre, Inc.. The business filled an entire floor of a forty story tower in the heart of Boston's financial district. Its glass facade reflected blue sky, fair weather clouds and neighboring buildings of deep red brick. Jordan hadn't given much thought to what might happen once she got here, only that she needed to see how fourteen years had affected Terence Conlon, to convince him that letting her into the accident site would benefit him.

  The elevator took her to the thirty-ninth floor, where an attractive young woman seated at the reception desk smiled a smoothly professional welcome.

  "My name is Augusta Maxwell. I have an appointment with Mr. Conlon."

  The woman led Jordan into a spacious paneled room furnished with lush wine carpeting, a wall of books and paintings of buildings.

  The man waited behind a desk large enough to seat twelve for dinner and watched Jordan approach. She'd drawn her hair into a tight chignon, h
ad hidden her eyes behind tinted glasses and worn her most severe gray suit. Even so, his eyes narrowed briefly. Did he know that "Augusta Maxwell" was really Robert VanDien's daughter?

  Rising, Terence Conlon reached out and took the hand she offered. "Good morning, Miss Maxwell. I understand you have some questions about the Harbor House project."

  Well, he's certainly direct, she thought. He sounded a lot like Ethan's imitation and looked as she imagined her father would if he'd lived to the same age - iron gray hair swept back from his high forehead, brown eyes alert, deeply tanned skin stretched taut over cheekbones and jaw.

  This man knew the correct wines to drink at every meal. He played tennis, sailed and had a house near the ski slopes. He traveled in the best circles while doing business in the worst. How could she expect him to take the puny bait she was about to offer?

  "I'm writing a story about the accident. I’d like to get VolTerre's

  side, but neither you nor your partner has ever made a statement to the press."

  "How do you know I have a partner?"

  "Can we at least establish that I've done my homework?"

  "What makes you think we'll talk to you?"

  "The case comes to trial in a few weeks. This could be a chance for you to get your story to the public." She paused for a moment to let that sink in and went on. "The city will marshall all its resources against you. Why not fire the first shot?"

  He watched her with narrowed eyes. "Why you, Miss Maxwell? What could an unknown possibly give me that I can't get on my own?"

  To steady herself, Jordan walked to the window. Conlon followed and stood close enough for her to get a whiff of his light, citrus-scented after-shave.

  "Look down there," he said. "I can point out a dozen VolTerre projects - office buildings, shopping centers, a hospital. We have a reputation in this town."

  "Which should be protected."

  "Then why look to you?"

  "Because I can keep you in touch with the strategy being used by the other side, and that will help you direct your fire power to maximum effectiveness."

  She turned and saw a gleam of interest flicker in his eyes. He returned to his high backed leather chair.

  "How would you accomplish that?"

  "I have a connection to the other parties." Will that be enough to convince him, she wondered. She hoped so. She needed to get inside the project - just once.

  He made a show of cleaning, filling and lighting his pipe. For some reason, the ritual gave her reason to hope. His gaze followed her progress from window to chair.

  "Why would you do that for us?"

  "I'm doing it for me.”

  His dark-eyed gaze never wavered. He seemed to be deciding something. About her.

  After a long silence, he shrugged his pinstriped shoulders. "What would you want from me? Just me. I represent the firm."

  "Answers to my questions. And to see the site - from the inside.” She looked at her watch. “This morning. The questions can come later."

  "All right. We'll give it a try."

  He pushed the button on his intercom. "Denise, have Vito bring the car around. Tell him we're going to inspect the Harbor House site."

  They made a tour of the complex. In the undamaged sections, materials stood in orderly stacks. Work lights cast insipid shadows where they swayed from girders. As she and Conlon walked on sheets of corrugated steel, their footsteps sent out eerie metallic echoes before joining their voices to drift away into the vast open spaces. Tattered plastic drop cloths flapped in the openings as the wind flowed through the steel skeleton.

  She stepped on something in the gloom and stooped to pick up a piece of wire mesh. "May I have it?"

  "It's a strange souvenir, but I don’t see why not."

  The tour ended at a spot overlooking the courtyard. Below them lay a small mountain of twisted metal and crumbled concrete. What she'd come to see.

  Conlon repeated facts commonly known about the accident as in her mind's eye, the videotape of the rescue efforts superimposed itself in vivid detail on the scene below. Beside her, Conlon stared down at the debris. Deep lines bracketed the mouth drawn into a tight line, and moisture glimmered in his eyes.

  "I'm sorry about your son's death."

  He turned to her with an expression that revealed anger and confusion, causing her to stumble over her words.

  "I...of course...I read the news stories."

  He cleared his throat. "Anything else you need?"

  "I don’t mean to be crass, but what about the allegation that the concrete hadn't been properly reinforced?"

  "Nonsense. We're not amateurs."

  "Or that materials weren't up to code?"

  "We're in the business of building, not destroying. What would we have gained by using any but the best materials?"

  She recognized the party line. "Well, then, what do you think caused the collapse?"

  "Damned if I know." He'd regained his composure and watched her with a wide-eyed expression that said he had no intention of enlightening her. "Anything else?"

  Had she really expected to get at anything he didn't want her to know? She shook her head. “I'll need time to record my impressions. I'll call when I'm ready for more."

  He nodded and took her under the elbow. In the construction elevator, she watched the building's frame move up and past, as it would have to a falling man. She shuddered. Terry, Jr. had fallen from the skywalk as it broke apart and had been buried under the debris.

  "By the way, I appreciate your words of sympathy," Conlon said.

  "Losing your son must have been awful."

  "So many plans and dreams - you never really recover from outliving a child. My wife took it especially hard."

  He paused for so long she was surprised he spoke again. When he did, his voice shook with suppressed pain and tears. "She's been in a sanitarium ever since."

  Jordan remembered a petite blonde with delicate features and a no-nonsense manner that had given an impression of strength. Her son's death obviously had been too much for her.

  "A double tragedy," she said. But then, what tragedy occurred without spawning others.

  "Where can you be reached?" he asked.

  "I'll call you in a couple of days. We'll talk then." An impossibility, of course, since she didn't plan on keeping "Miss Maxwell" alive beyond this visit.

  Out on the street, she declined his offer of a lift and stood at the curb. When the limo pulled away and disappeared into the traffic stream, she found a cab and returned to the hotel.

  Back in her room she tried to concentrate on the next stage of her research. Instead, she paced restlessly. Finally, she called the house. Ethan was out, but was expected back shortly.

  "Please tell him I'm on my way."

  The housekeeper answered her knock and led her to the kitchen.

  Ethan rose from his place at the table as Jordan stepped into the gleaming white room. She looked pale, despite having just come from the outside where a brisk wind blew. Fatigue dulled her eyes. Only a resolve to keep his distance prevented him from putting his arms around her. He settled for taking her cold hands in his. He felt the tension in her response and searched for a quick remedy.

  "Please get us some brandy, Mrs. Willis."

  After she'd gone, he touched the narrow gold frames of Jordan’s glasses. "Never saw these before."

  "I wore them instead of my contacts when I went to see Terence Conlon. To help me feel like someone else."

  "What in bloody hell possessed you?" His voice bounced off the kitchen's tile walls.

  "Calm down. Nothing happened."

  "If nothing happened, why are you so upset?"

  "Because it was scary. Why are you so angry?"

  "I'm not angry, I'm worried. Why did you go?"

  Her eyes darkened as if a curtain had been drawn across them. What is she hiding, he wondered.

  "I can't see how you expect to find anything at night. I figured if I could get Conlon to take me
into the site, I'd learn something you could use."

  "And...?"

  "He didn’t let anything slip,” she said with a wry smile, “but I did see the wreckage."

  With perfect timing, Mrs. Willis returned carrying a decanter and two glasses on a silver tray. She set them down on the counter and excused herself.

  Ethan poured brandy into two snifters and held one out to Jordan. "This should take out the chill."

  She inhaled the bouquet and took a sip of the liquid warmth. "It helps. Thanks."

  He leaned against the counter, watching her remove her glasses. His feeling of protectiveness intensified as she looked at him with a slightly out-of-focus gaze. She seemed young and vulnerable, as she’d been that night in the hotel.

  Even so, her hands were steady as she removed the pins holding her hair, letting its soft waves cascade to her shoulders. She raked through the golden mass and sighed. His fingers ached to be her comb. He noted with relief that color returned to her cheeks as she sat beside the marble table where Mrs. Willis prepared her bread and pastries.

  "It feels good to be free again. Play acting isn't my cup of tea."

  "Who were you pretending to be?"

  "An ambitious, self-serving reporter with a connection to the 'other side' and a desire to tell VolTerre's story."

  He grinned for the first time since she'd come in. "Pretty good job of stretching the truth. You must've pulled it off. You got out with your skin intact." The danger in what she'd done sobered him. "But you took a foolish risk. I've got the scars to prove how rough those blokes can play. If you'd told me what you were doing, I would never've let you go."

  He could almost see her back stiffen at the word "let" but apparently the verbal slip merited only a steely glare.

  "That's why I didn't tell you."

  He shook his head. "Since you've said you didn't find anything, what upset you?"

  "Seeing the rubble. Thinking about the lives lost and the families that have suffered, about the way you must feel. Even Conlon - he paid a heavy price for his mistakes - or dishonesty, whichever it was."

  "I knew his son. He was a good kid."