ALMOST EVERYTHING

by Williams, Mary J.

Dionne didn’t bother to hide her reaction. She groaned, with vigor.

  “Lord, sometimes you are such a guy.” She paused. If Morgan hoped the conversation was over, he should have known better. “Do you remember her name?”

  “Anne Cleves,” he answered, not one hundred percent he was right.

  “As in the fourth wife of Henry VIII?”

  Morgan knew Dionne had his number. However, he hadn’t amassed a fortune by caving at the first sign of trouble. When those around him panicked, cool logic was his weapon of choice.

  “Google the name,” he told her with more confidence than he felt. “If you don’t find a single modern woman with the same name, I’ll drive my Ferrari into the East River.”

  “I know your game, Mr. McCloud.”

  “One I always win.”

  “Mm.” Dionne cleared her throat. “Want to know why you need to remember the name of your sexual partners?”

  “So, I can send flowers the next day?”

  “I send the flowers—when you can be bothered,” she reminded him. “The reason has nothing to do with romance and everything to do with practicality. Curious?”

  “Not really.”

  Dionne chose to ignore his grumbled response.

  “A few weeks later, when a rash appears on your nether region, good to know how to contact the person responsible.”

  “Not funny,” Morgan said.

  “Agreed. STDs are no laughing matter.”

  And yet, Morgan could hear the unmistakable sound of Dionne snorting into her glass of brandy. Despite himself, he smiled.

  “Have a good evening.”

  “I will.” She sobered, her voice filled with concern. “Be careful.”

  “Caution is my middle name,” he assured her.

  “Bull. You take more risks than any human should.”

  “With money,” Morgan conceded. “Not my life.”

  “No reason to go in alone. I can catch the next flight out.”

  “What about your big plans? Can’t disappoint— Who’s tonight’s lucky man?”

  “Jerome Stills.”

  “The hockey player? Nice.”

  “Morgan—” Dionne took a breath. “All joking aside. You think you’re prepared, but you haven’t seen those people in a long time. The next week will be tough. But tomorrow, the first time you see them, is guaranteed to be a bitch.”

  “You doubt I can field whatever shitstorm comes my way?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Then trust me to take care of business.”

  “Except what you’ve set in motion is personal.”

  Morgan’s muscles tensed, a sure sign he was on the cusp of saying something he’d regret. Dionne would understand; in fact, she probably hoped he would let off some steam and lose his temper.

  With effort, Morgan forced himself to relax.

  “Good night, Dionne.”

  “You’ll get some sleep?” Dionne pushed, the concern in her voice adding an unfamiliar edge.

  “Have a good time tonight.”

  Morgan ended the call before Dionne could answer.

  Breathing deep, he filled his lungs one more time with the cool air before sliding behind the wheel of the SUV. Before starting the engine, he gave the town one last look.

  She was down there. Somewhere. Safe, sound. Happy? Morgan couldn’t say. One thing he knew that she didn’t. She had one last night to enjoy her cushy life. Starting tomorrow, all bets were off.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ♫~♫~♫

  INDIA CURTIS HALLSTROM took a cursory sip from the crystal glass. The sherry wasn’t to her taste but like so many things in her life, she did what was expected without complaint.

  Pre-dinner drinks in the library was a ritual she accepted as part of the bargain she forged with herself the day she agreed to marry Allard Hallstrom.

  Money and power. Power and money. India knew the only gods her husband worshiped. She should. Since birth, she watched her father pray at the same altar.

  Raised in luxury, pampered, her every whim was anticipated. Except for an all-too-brief four-year college respite, India’s world hadn’t changed a great deal when she transitioned from a rich man’s daughter to a richer man’s wife.

  She simply traded one jailer for another.

  “I love your dress.” Jinx Brill cooed. “Paris?”

  “Mm,” India answered. “From our trip last spring.”

  India hated the bored tone of her voice. Yet, she couldn’t bring herself to fake enthusiasm she didn’t feel for one more silk dress so like the hundreds of others hanging in her closet.

  True, the peacock-blue color suited her pale skin and amber-colored eyes. But when asked, no one expected anything more than a nonchalant shrug. She was a trophy wife, and the requirements were straight-forward. The same ones her mother followed; she stopped trying to change them long ago.

  Play the part of a platinum-edition Barbie doll with the stick figure to match. No personality necessary.

  In public, smile when appropriate, but don’t show too many teeth. Laugh, but always with decorum. Exhibit a modicum of intelligence—God forbid anyone believed Allard Hallstrom married a dolt. However, she must never let her brain outshine the men in the room.

  Average height with a naturally stocky frame, he was handsome by most standards and at forty-nine, stayed fit with rounds of golf and regular visits to his mistress of the moment, strove to look as youthful as possible. Weekly facials and yearly visits to a cosmetic surgeon in Detroit were only a few examples of how he fed his vanity.

  India loathed her husband. Allard considered her a piece of property. When not making a public show of marital solidarity, they did little more than silently pass each other in the halls.

  On the rare occasions Allard visited India’s bedroom, with little fanfare and no foreplay, he dropped his robe and climbed into bed. As he said on their wedding night, she was to lay still and think of England—actually, she added the last part. She used various subjects to keep her mind busy—anything to help her through the uncomfortable, but thankfully brief copulation.

  India didn’t question why he bothered. Allard didn’t lust after her, never had. He used sex as a form of control. She belonged to him. Now and then, he felt the need to remind her who called the shots. As if she could forget.

  India shook her head when the maid offered a canapé from a doily lined antique silver tray. Her choice not to take one of the expertly prepared morsels had nothing to do with concern over her figure. She lost her appetite the day she said I do.

  As her fifth wedding anniversary approached, India’s five-foot-nine-inch model-thin frame was a testament to the success of a diet she wouldn’t recommend to her worst enemy. Marry the man of your nightmares and you’ll never want to eat again.

  Jinx, who loved her husband, placed two mini-quiches on a cocktail napkin, then for good measure, added a salmon mousse-covered cucumber. She giggled and shrugged, causing the diamond clip she wore in her short crop of sable-brown hair to bounce and glitter.

  “If you weren’t my friend, I’d hate how disciplined you are,” Jinx said, licking a bit of flaky crust from her bottom lip. “You never miss a visit to the health club, you avoid fattening treats, and you always look as if you stepped off the cover of a fashion magazine.”

  Unfortunately, every quality the other woman ticked off was spot-on accurate. Jinx couldn’t know how hard India worked to never put a foot wrong. Most of the time, she wanted to scream. Instead, she kept her temper ruthlessly in check.

  From her newly blown-out jet-black hair to the classes she took to assure her makeup always appeared to be professionally applied, she made certain the outside world saw her as practically perfect.

  The thought made India want to vomit.

  “Do you like your life?”

  Blinking once, then twice, Jinx seemed surprised by the question.

  “Of course. I’m ador
ed by a wonderful man, and we have three healthy, wonderful brats waiting at home.” She laughed. “If I could drop a little weight, life would be bliss.”

  “Don’t diminish your happiness for any reason—especially a few unimportant extra pounds.” India squeezed Jinx’s hand. “You’re beautiful exactly as you are, inside and out. And I’m—”

  “Dinner is served.”

  About to confess she was a fraud with a black, withered heart and an empty soul, India didn’t know if she was relieved or disappointed when the maid’s announcement stopped her from a rare moment of honesty.

  The lies India told the world weren’t etched indelibly into stone. What kept her going was the hope that one day, she would have the power to cut the velvet chains that bound her. But not here, not now.

  One day, the advantage would shift, and India would find a place—far from here—where she could finally breathe free. Until then, she would bide her time and play the game.

  Tonight’s gathering consisted of six guests—intimate by Allard Hallstrom’s standards. He didn’t entertain for pleasure’s sake. He used dinner parties to advance his business, not cultivate friends.

  Jinx’s husband, an executive at Lake Darwell Investments, was always good for a stock market tip or two. Edwin and Sheila Sheraton were old money—Edwin expedited Allard’s country club membership some twenty years earlier. And the last couple, Anthony and Mildred Topper, owned a prime piece of lakefront real estate they refused to sell despite Allard’s best efforts.

  “Someone finally moved into the old Middleton place.” Jinx shared the bit of information the second everyone was seated. “About time, since the renovations were finished almost a month ago.”

  Owned by five generations of the same family, when Gaylord Middleton passed away last spring at the grand old age of ninety-six, his heir—a cousin from out west—listed the property for sale, and Allard took notice.

  Content to wait until the prospect of bank account draining property taxes bottomed out the asking price, he bided his time, rubbing his hands together like a greedy child waiting for his dinner.

  The walls of Allard’s home office shook with his rage when he learned an anonymous buyer swooped and paid the full asking price. Out for blood, he tried to find the name of the new owner. The best his people could come up with was a corporation. Cumulus Inc.

  Now, the person who thwarted his plans was in town, and Allard had to hear the news from Jinx Brill? His eyelids narrowed to a slit, barely masking his annoyance.

  “How do you know the new owner’s in town?” he demanded.

  Jinx, such a gentle soul, was immune to Allard’s scathing disdain. She had information to share and as all eyes turned her way, she fluffed her hair and sat up straight, relishing her moment in the spotlight.

  “First, Betsy Pike down at the coffee shop said her husband saw a truck from one of those fancy whole food stores make a delivery to the house. Tim’s a mailman,” Jinx rushed to explain. “He doesn’t miss anything along his route.”

  “Why schedule a delivery unless someone plans to take up residence?” Sheila Sheraton smiled, enjoying the unfolding story.

  “Exactly,” Jinx nodded. “Then, late this afternoon, Johnny Horton—”

  “The electrician?” Anthony Topper inquired.

  “He’s the one.”

  “Good man,” Anthony said. “Fast, reasonable prices, and stands behind his work. When he rewired our garage, the door opener didn’t work. We called Johnny, and he came right out the next—”

  “Who cares?” Allard barked. At best, he was an indifferent host. However, when impatient, he abandoned all semblance of social etiquette. “What about the new owner?”

  “Johnny saw a dark-blue SUV stop in front of the security gate around six-thirty. He figured the driver must be lost so he pulled his truck to the side of the road, ready to give directions.”

  “How thoughtful!” Sheila chimed in.

  “He’s a lovely man,” Jinx agreed, ignoring Allard’s frustrated groan. “Whoever was in the vehicle—top-of-the-line Cadillac, according to Johnny—had the code because only a few seconds passed when the gate opened, and the SUV disappeared inside.”

  “That’s it?” Allard scoffed. “Johnny the electrician watched a car drive through the gates, but he didn’t see who was behind the wheel? Or in the backseat?”

  “Well, no. The windows were tinted,” Jinx admitted. “But who else would have the code and drive a fancy car?”

  “Any number of people.” Allard rolled his eyes as he emptied his glass of wine in two gulps.

  “Shall I serve the soup, Mrs. Hallstrom?”

  “Please, Allie,” India said to the maid.

  “Must be someone from Cumulus Incorporated.” Mildred Topper took a sip of her soup and smiled at India. “Lovely. Lentil?”

  “Yes. Our cook developed the recipe herself and—”

  “Damn it, India. Would you shut up about the soup?” Allard shouted.

  “Now, see here,” Anthony Topper said, quick to jump to her defense. “No reason to speak that way to your wife, Hallstrom.”

  “Or anyone else,” Mildred Topper sniffed.

  “Too right, my dear.” Anthony patted Mildred’s hand.

  “Do you require an apology, India?” Allard asked.

  “Of course not,” she assured her husband.

  India was immune to Allard’s temper tantrums. Since nothing about him mattered to her, he couldn’t hurt her.

  “What were you saying about Cumulus Incorporated, Mrs. Topper?” Jinx asked.

  “Mildred.” Her husband gave a slight shake of his head, his gaze darting toward Allard. “Now’s not the time, my dear.”

  “Oh.” Mildred suddenly looked flustered. “I forgot.”

  Allard perked up. He’d tried for months to dig up information on the company—to no avail.

  “You know something about Cumulus? Tell me,” he demanded.

  “I’d hoped to speak to you after dinner, in person, as a courtesy.” Anthony Topper sighed. “Yesterday, we sold our house to Cumulus.”

  “What?” Allard gripped the table, his face turning red. “You turned me down over and over. Said you weren’t interested in selling.”

  “We weren’t,” Anthony insisted. “However, the nice young woman who spoke to us over the phone was very persuasive.”

  “Dionne,” his wife said. “Last week, she made a special trip all the way from New York. Brought Anthony’s favorite bagels, the ones he used to get during his days at Columbia University.”

  “From the same deli.” Anthony chuckled. “How could we say no?”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” Allard jumped to his feet. “I practically begged, and this Dionne woman bought you with a fucking bagel?”

  While the rest of their dinner guests watched the proceedings with wide-eyed interest, India kept her expression neutral. Inside, she jumped with joy.

  “I see no reason for foul language,” Mildred sniffed. “And the bagels were a nice bonus. We said yes because we liked Dionne. She was polite and friendly.”

  In other words, the exact opposite of Allard, India thought. She wanted to kiss Mildred Topper and her husband.

  “Dionne also offered us a fair price, something you failed to do.” Anthony looked at his wife. “Am I right, my dear?”

  “As always, my love.”

  Allard pounded a fist on the table, sending silver bouncing and glasses shaking. Then, before he completely blew a gasket, he turned and stormed from the room. A few seconds later, they were treated to the sound of his office door slamming—not once, but twice.

  “I’m so sorry,” Mildred said to India. “We didn’t mean to ruin your dinner party.”

  “You didn’t ruin anything,” India said with a practiced smile when all she wanted to do was grin from ear to ear.

  “Perhaps we should leave.”

  “Don’t be silly. Serve the main co
urse, Allie.” India looked around the table. “I hope everyone’s hungry. Cook’s beef bourguignon will melt in your mouth.”

  The party resumed, better off without their host’s presence—though his guests were too polite to say so.

  Whoever owned Cumulus Incorporated, India owed them a debt of gratitude. She enjoyed a meal the first time in forever, including a piece of Lemon Dream Cake. While in his office, fuming, Allard Hallstrom was forced to choke down a large serving of humble pie.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ♫~♫~♫

  THE MORNING SUN showed the first blush of pink over the crest of the mountains. Morgan poured himself a bowl of cereal, gazed out the kitchen window, and reminded himself to stop and savor the view.

  When he was young and still possessed a modicum of ideals—despite the fact he was stuck with a morally bankrupt father who made his living as a hired thug—he believed the sunrise was one of nature’s greatest miracles. A new day afforded everyone a fresh start, the slate scrubbed clean of yesterday’s mistakes.

  Lord, he used to be such a fucking New Age Pollyanna. Morgan snorted as he slowly chewed a bite of organic granola and tried without success to summon up an ounce of the wide-eyed optimism that once ruled his life.

  Laird McCloud, Morgan’s father, tried his best to toughen up his artistically minded offspring. He had to give his father credit. For a brute of a man with little patience as a single parent, he never raised more than his voice.

  Later, shortly after his twentieth birthday, Morgan joined Razor’s Edge, met Kane Harrison, and learned how much restraint his father showed to the son he never understood.

  Verbal abuse could suck the self-esteem out of a child. Physical abuse, repeated and brutal, could end a life. Kane almost died on three occasions, twice by his father’s hand, once by his own.

  Morgan’s old friend survived. However, the scars he carried—inside and out—never fully healed. Kane had a demon inside him he tried to control with alcohol, drugs, and random hook-ups; temporary solutions that eventually took their toll—on him and to a lesser extent, the other members of the band.