Man Trouble

by Melanie Craft

  “I feel like a sundae,” Molly said, trying to cover her nervousness. She couldn't believe that she was allowing Elaine to do this to her, but for some reason that defied logic, she trusted Carter's sister.

  It had been a good decision. Her hair—blown dry to a bouncy smoothness—shimmered like amber satin. She had been running her fingers through it since they left the salon yesterday. It was amazing to think that this stuff was attached to her own scalp.

  Sandra's makeup palette had also been edited to suit Molly. Out went the frosted blue eye shadow, the sticky pink lip gloss, the liquid bronzer, and the shimmery white highlighter. The new kit consisted of undereye concealer, taupe eye shadow from Elaine's own supplies, a smoky eyeliner pencil, mascara, sheer cream blush, and a peachy lipstick selected by the spa makeup artist.

  Like a child with a new toy, Molly had gotten up early that morning and gone through the whole ritual again, alone in the bathroom. It took fifteen minutes to smooth out her hair with the blow dryer and a round brush, and ten more to apply the makeup, but the results were almost as astonishing as they had been the first time.

  She wasn't beautiful, but she had never expected to be beautiful, so it was no disappointment. She was polished, though, in a stylish way that made her feel like a new person. She didn't look like a clone of Elaine, or a toned-down version of Sandra, or even a scrubbed-up version of her former self. She looked entirely different. And pretty. Actually pretty.

  She was still stuck with her glasses for the moment, but they didn't look all that bad. With her new makeup and her streaky, tousled hair, they gave her a sort of sexy, intellectual look. She smiled at her reflection, hesitantly at first, and then with more confidence. There was a lump forming in her throat.

  “Good heavens,” Elaine said from behind her. She was holding up Molly's favorite bra, which was several years old, a faded beige, and stretched-out from a few too many spins in the dryer. It was comfortable, though, and Molly was fond of it.

  “Out,” Elaine said, tossing it onto the reject pile.

  “You can't throw that out,” Molly protested. “I need it. What else am I supposed to wear under my clothes?”

  “For now, nothing,” Elaine said. “It worked for Marilyn Monroe, and frankly, dear, wearing nothing would be preferable to wearing…that. You're small enough to get away with it, especially in this environment. When we get home to Chicago, I'll take you shopping. Among other things, it will be my pleasure to instruct you on the art and science of lingerie.”

  CHAPTER 16

  “Would you like another cup of coffee, Dr. Shaw?” asked Cora Berenger's butler.

  “No,” Molly said. “Thank you.” She had accepted the first cup mostly to have something to hold in her restless hands, but after sitting for ten minutes on the Berengers' terrace, waiting for Jake, she had slowly sipped the whole thing down.

  The villa was made of local stone, and it seemed to rise organically from the low cliffs just uphill from the resort—far enough removed for privacy, but close enough to be at the Gold Bay beach after a fifteen-minute walk. The resort wasn't actually visible from the villa, but Molly knew that it lay just beyond the jetty of rock coming out from the cliffs to the right. The house was high enough so that the crash of waves against the rocks below was softly soothing, and to the left rose the green slopes of the mountain. The terrace was large, built for entertaining, and connected to the house through three large sets of French doors, all standing open to admit the ocean breeze. Crimson bougainvillea climbed the stone walls of the villa, reaching and twining over the top of a wooden trellis that shaded one side of the terrace. This was where Molly had finally settled down to drink her coffee. She felt as far removed from her apartment in Belden as she would have felt in the middle of an Egyptian bazaar.

  It was another five minutes before Jake appeared. “I apologize for keeping you waiting,” he said. “I was on a business call.”

  “That's okay,” Molly said. “I've been enjoying the view.” She regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth. The last thing she wanted to do was to remind him of the last time that they had been together, discussing a view.

  Jake nodded. From his manner—polite and slightly distant—he hadn't noticed her accidental reference. It was as if that day had never happened, and oddly, Molly felt both relieved and disappointed.

  He looked her over with a clinically curious eye. “So, Professor, you've changed again. Is this the real Molly Shaw?”

  “Uh…yes,” Molly said. “I think so.”

  “You think so?”

  “I'm not wearing a wig, if that's what you're asking. And from now on, I'll probably look more or less like this.”

  “And Sandra?”

  “Sandra is retired.”

  “And her alter ego? The mousy scholar?”

  “In a sense, she's retired, too,” Molly said. It was a testament to Elaine's abilities that Jake thought that her pre-makeover self had also been a disguise. “But that one is a little more complicated.”

  “Okay, Ms. Shaw,” Jake said. “I used to think that I was a smart guy, but you have me completely stumped. What the hell have you been doing at my resort? Was this some kind of publicity stunt for your book? Didn't you know that we don't allow press on the island?”

  “Oh, my God,” Molly said. “Publicity? No. I wasn't looking for press. Just the opposite. I told you.”

  “You told me that you're not a journalist, and you have no desire to write about me. Fine. I like that in a woman. But if you aren't from the press, and you aren't looking for press, then…?” He looked inquiringly at her, as if to say, fill in the blank.

  Molly sighed. She hadn't planned to tell him the whole truth, but she was getting the feeling that it would be a good idea. At least it would make things less convoluted, and maybe restore a little of her credibility. Jake did have a sense of humor, so he might find the whole thing funny. “Well,” she said, “actually, I was looking for you.”

  He nodded. “I guessed that. But like I said, if you wanted to have Sandra photographed with me, you picked the wrong place. There aren't any paparazzi hiding in our bushes. Or does your little friend Carter have a secret camera?”

  “No,” Molly said. “My litt—I mean, my friend Carter is a journalist. He was the one who helped me get Pirate Gold published, so I owe him a favor.”

  “Which was to do what?”

  “Try to convince you to work with him on a project. He wants to write your biography. He's a very talented writer, and I know he'd do a great job. He did a profile on Donald Trump for Esquire magazine. Here's a folder of some other work that he's published…”

  She stopped. Jake was shaking his head in disbelief.

  “Are you telling me,” he said, “that the blond bombshell getup was designed to catch my attention so that you could persuade me to work on a book with your friend?”

  Molly grinned gamely. “Yes. Can you believe it? It's kind of funny, isn't it? Funny?”

  “That's one word for it,” Jake said. He wasn't smiling. “Why did you pick that particular character for the job?”

  “We did some research on you, and she seemed like your type.”

  “Did she,” he said dryly. “Interesting. I can see why you would think that, but you don't know me, do you? Any more than I know you.”

  “I guess not,” Molly said. It didn't look as if he intended to laugh this off.

  “And the mousy professor? What was the goal there?”

  “Oh,” Molly said awkwardly. “No goal. That really was me. I had my hair cut at the Gold Bay salon yesterday. They're very good.”

  “Apparently so,” Jake said. “But I'm still not clear on the Mary Morgan bit. I was told that you came here to talk to me about the ruins.”

  “I did. I wanted to tell you that I have more information. From the museum director on Antigua. It's an old map, and I thought you would be interested.”

  “I assumed that the Bonny Mary story was also fictional.”


  “Fictional?” Molly echoed, surprised. “No, of course not. Why would you think that?”

  “Let's see,” Jake said. “Why would I think that something you told me wasn't true?”

  Molly felt her face reddening. “Actually,” she said, “almost everything I ever said to you was true. I just looked different when I said it, but I suppose that men like you are easily confused by that kind of thing.”

  He didn't answer, and she continued. “There are plenty of documents confirming that Mary existed. I was also telling the truth when I said that I think she lived on this island.”

  Jake exhaled slowly. He motioned toward the table. “Fine,” he said. “Sit down and show me what you have.”

  Molly looked suspiciously at him. He certainly wasn't wearing the expression of a man who felt very strongly about the preservation of important cultural heritage sites, as he had claimed the other day. He looked more like a man who wished that she would disappear and take her heritage site with her.

  She pulled out the copy of the old map and put it on the table, turning it to face him. “Here,” she said, pointing. “Do you recognize the coastline? The salt ponds? Those two crosses represent the two windmills. The name of the plantation was Dyer's Fortune.”

  “And?” Jake asked.

  “Mary's ship was called the Lady Fortune,” Molly said.

  He nodded. “What else?”

  “Um…that's it,” Molly said.

  “That's it? That's all you have?”

  “For now, yes. But I have friends at the British Library and the Public Records Office, and I'll be checking with them as soon as they're back at work after the holidays. It's possible that the name Dyer is connected to Mary's family in some way.”

  “Time is getting short,” Jake said. “We had agreed on two weeks, which will be almost gone by the time that the holidays are over.”

  “I know, but I might need a little longer to find the information.”

  “Or to confirm that you can't find it,” Jake said. “I'm afraid that I have to draw the line at two weeks.”

  “But—” Molly began, dismayed.

  Jake shook his head. “I wish I could give you more time, Professor, but I can't afford to. I'm sorry, but the project needs to move forward. Every day's delay costs my company money…money that belongs to the Berenger shareholders.”

  “But this is important,” Molly exclaimed. “I'm not just going to stop searching after two weeks! What if I turn up the proof after you've bulldozed half of the site?”

  Jake looked coolly at her. “That's a good question,” he said. “What if you do?”

  She thought of what Carter had said, and met Jake's gaze, steeling herself. She had no intention of trying to blackmail him into doing Carter's project—friendship only went so far. But she was willing to fight a little harder on Mary's behalf. “It wouldn't look very good for your company—in the press, I mean—to be caught destroying Bonny Mary's plantation, would it?”

  His mouth curved slightly. “I agree. That might be a problem for us.”

  “Then you have to give me more time. You don't have any choice.”

  “Don't I?” Jake asked. “Because it seems to me that it might be a problem for you if the press found out about your novel-writing habit.”

  Molly gasped. “What?”

  “I think that we understand each other.”

  “Are you telling me that if I try to go to the press with any information that connects Dyer's Fortune to Mary Morgan, you'll expose me as Sandra St. Claire?”

  “Yes,” Jake said. “And let me add that you started this fight. You just threatened me, Professor. I've done my best to be reasonable and helpful, to the limits of my ability. Whereas you have been conning me, my staff, and my guests. You've been using unethical methods to try to manipulate me into working with your friend—”

  “Unethical methods!” Molly exclaimed. “You kissed me, just to humiliate me! What do you call that, morally upstanding?”

  Jake grinned. “You didn't seem to mind at the time.”

  “I was acting,” Molly said coldly. “I found the whole experience very unpleasant.”

  “Then I'm impressed. You're a hell of an actress.”

  Molly glared at him, nearly speechless with fury. With shaking hands she gathered up her papers and clutched them to her chest. “That's it,” she said through her teeth. “This discussion is over.”

  He was chuckling as he watched her. “So soon? You were off to a good start, Professor. Blackmail can be very effective when it's done right. But then, you have a habit of starting games that you can't follow through, don't you?”

  Berenger Chief Battles Wall Street Critics—and Rumors of Personal Chaos

  Until recently, Jake Berenger, the flamboyant chief executive of Berenger Corporation, seemed to have it all. But even the mighty can fall. With Berenger stock languishing at an all-time low, the once-celebrated playboy billionaire is now dogged by rumors of serial womanizing and drug use. Mr. Berenger was unavailable for comment, but a company spokesman claimed that the accusations were without merit.

  “I'm getting very tired of that term,” Jake said darkly, tossing the printout down onto his desk. It was late on Friday afternoon, and his office had just faxed him an article due to run in Saturday's Washington Post.

  “Playboy billionaire?” asked Cora. She had been reading over his shoulder. “You were the one who courted that image, dear. Isn't it a bit hypocritical to get angry at the press now that it's suddenly working against you?”

  Jake leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms against his chest, and scowled at her.

  She gazed right back at him. “Well,” she said, “don't worry. You won't have to suffer with it much longer. The stock is down almost two dollars since the Wall Street Journal article, which means that—technically—you aren't a billionaire anymore.”

  “Thanks,” Jake said coldly. “That's great to hear. If you have any bright ideas about how to instantly repair my public image and get the stock price back up, I'd love to hear them. The best our PR department can do is to tell me to start promoting the Berenger Foundation. They say that our charitable donations have been too discreet, and I need to spend more time being photographed with sick children. How's that for hypocritical?”

  “Over my dead body,” Cora said, looking appalled. “That can't have been their only idea. These people are supposed to be good.”

  “They are, but they're not magicians. We're falling back on the usual strategy…trying to place positive articles while doing as much damage control as possible. I've been cutting costs for months, and rearranging our sales department, so our margins should be better this quarter, which will help. A market upswing would also be nice, but that one's out of my hands. It's going to take time.”

  Cora sat silently, tapping her fingers against the arm of the chair. Her lips were pressed together, and he could see that she was thinking hard. Finally, she exhaled. “Your PR team is wrong,” she said. “This is not the time for the ‘usual strategy.’ This is an emergency situation. We need to be proactive.”

  “Believe me,” Jake said, “I know. I've even been reconsidering the interview issue. But it's not going to help me to start talking to the press right now. If I suddenly show up on TV, everyone will ask the obvious question: Why? And under the circumstances, the obvious answer is that I'm in trouble and I'm trying to save myself. If the street starts speculating about internal problems at Berenger, things are going to get a lot worse.”

  “I agree,” Cora said. “Now isn't the time to start giving interviews. You'll need to do it soon, but not yet. First, we have to give the press a better story about you. Then, when they have something new to focus on, we'll put you on TV.”

  “You sound like you have something in mind,” Jake said.

  “I do,” Cora said. She smiled at him. “It should make you very happy to hear that the era of the playboy billionaire is over. We're going to announce your official engagemen
t to Amanda Harper.”

  Jake started to laugh. “For a minute,” he said, “I thought you were serious.”

  “I am,” Cora said indignantly. “And I haven't suddenly gone senile, so stop looking at me like that. It's a good idea. A splashy public engagement to a nice girl like Amanda would be the perfect way to handle your image problem. Everyone loves a reformed sinner. I can see the headlines now: ‘Playboy Tamed by True Love.'”

  Jake was beginning to think that he was the only sane person left on the island. “Let me make sure that I understand you,” he said. “You want me to use Harry's daughter to patch up my reputation? Am I the only one who sees an ethical problem with this?”

  “Yes,” Cora said. “Because there is no problem. I'm not suggesting that we lie to the Harpers. Harry will love this idea. It's just the kind of stunt he'd come up with, and Amanda is hardly shy. She'll adore all of the attention—she's her daddy's daughter, after all. She's young enough to enjoy the drama of a scheme like this.”

  “And I'm old enough to know better,” Jake said. “Forget it.”

  “All we need are a few months of you looking devoted and domestic. It will stop the rumors, make Skye's accusations look like sour grapes, improve your image, and give you the time you need to get the company back under control.”

  “And then? What is my new fiancée going to say when I thank her and show her the door? Because that's exactly what I'll do. I have no intention of marrying Amanda Harper, or anyone else.”

  “You don't have to marry her,” Cora said. “Engagements are broken all the time. Maybe Amanda won't like you once she gets to know you.”

  “Or maybe we'll fall madly in love and live happily ever after? I appreciate your multilayer scheme, Ma, but this is more than I'm willing to do to indulge the tabloids. Or your hunger for grandchildren. Sorry. I'll figure out a way to handle this problem on my own.”

  Cora exhaled impatiently. “This is the perfect solution, don't you see? And Amanda is the obvious choice. She's a family friend, not an outsider. She understands this world.”

  “Her father is a family friend,” Jake said. “Amanda is just a twenty-one-year-old kid. She may or may not understand what she'd be getting herself into. When Skye's manager called me to arrange our first date, Skye understood perfectly well that it was about business. It wasn't supposed to be personal, but look what happened.”