Enchanted Heart (11 page)

“But . . .”

“Anything.”

He was so transparent she almost laughed out loud. “I pick the place for Saturday. And it won't be a gallery.”

He shrugged. “Fine with me.”

We'll just see about that,
Viv thought. Lance Heart Smith didn't know what he'd just gotten himself into.

 

 

Sonja Pride waved at her husband's secretary and after a quick two-rap knock pushed open his office door.

“Cole? I have a surprise,” she announced. She stepped into the office, a large wicker picnic basket in tow. She'd spent much of the morning holed up in her own office strategizing on how to put the spark back in her marriage. If they were truly headed toward the rocks, she'd at least go out fighting.

Cole looked up. So did Jack Spencer.

Jack rose.

“I didn't realize you had a guest,” Sonja said.

Cole made the introductions. “Jack, this is my wife, Sonja Pride Heart.”

Sonja's gaze darted to Cole. What game did he play now? She'd never adopted the Heart name.

“Sonja, this is Jack Spencer, my oldest and dearest friend.”

She sized up the man, wondering just who he was. A divorce lawyer? He hardly looked the type. But neither did that TV lawyer who always wore the fringed leather jacket. This guy looked like Indiana Jones's long-lost black brother. Cole had never mentioned any Jack Spencer. And Sonja was sure she'd never seen a photo of this man. He was someone she'd have remembered.

“Pleased to meet you, ma'am.” Jack touched his forehead as if he were tipping a hat to her.

A Texan, Sonja surmised.

She put her hand in his and wasn't at all surprised by the strength she found there.

His eyes widened a bit at her grip. She'd clearly surprised him, and Sonja was pleased.

Jack turned to Cole. “Your woman shakes hands like a man,” he said. “I like that.”

Sonja didn't quite know what to make of that compliment. She placed the picnic basket on a round table. “I thought I'd surprise you, but it looks like you're busy. I'll just leave this.”

“All right,” Cole said.

Nothing in his voice revealed pleasure at her attempt to mend their fences. Nothing in his expression gave away what he was thinking. He just stood there. Stoic as always.

“Well,” Sonja said, “I guess I'll be leaving.”

Cole nodded.

Jack looked first at Cole and then at Sonja. “I don't want to interrupt,” he said. “We can finish our business later, Cole. I can see you've gone out of your way,” he told Sonja.

She smiled at him. “It's not a problem. Is it, Cole? Business always comes first.”

On that she turned on her heel and left the office without another word.

Jack ran a finger along his cheek. “Mighty fine woman you got there, Heart. How'd you manage to mess things up with her?”

“What makes you think things are messed up or that I'm the one at fault?”

Jack shook his head, looking at the basket she'd left. He went over, lifted the top and peeked inside. “Looks like she put some thought and effort into this. And you just turned her down. In my book, that's messing things up with a good woman. Woman like that wants to be treated like a woman.”

“Advice from the world's most dedicated bachelor.”

“I've had my share of heartache, but I'd never admit it.” He indicated the wicker basket. “Aren't you going to see what she brought you?”

“No.” Cole sifted through a stack of papers on his desk. “Here's the consultant's report. Projections are broken out in three categories.”

Jack didn't say anything. He just stroked his chin and looked at the door Sonja had walked through. “Mighty fine woman,” he muttered.

Later that night, Sonja walked into her kitchen with the intention of making a cup of chamomile tea to soothe her nerves.

“You want a chaser with that?”

Sonja screamed, dropped the cup and whirled around.

“Sorry,” Jack said. “I didn't mean to scare you.”

She clutched her terrycloth robe to her throat. Her heart continued to pound erratically. “You scared the Jesus out of me.”

Jack grinned. “Now there's an expression you don't hear every day. Where you from, Miss Sonja?”

Sonja stepped back as he bent to pick up the pieces of the shattered ceramic mug.

“Here. I mean Hampton. What are you doing here?”

Jack shook his head. “I told Cole he should've called you to make sure my staying here wouldn't be a problem.”

Sonja heard only the pertinent words. “Staying here?”

“I can go to a hotel. There's plenty of 'em up here in these parts. I had reservations at the Lodge. Where should I put these pieces?”

Sonja stared at his large hands for a long moment. He held the pieces of the cream-colored mug, and for a moment she thought she might burst into tears. It was as if he held out to her the pieces of her ruined marriage. “I . . . under the sink. And no, Mr. Spencer, it's fine if you stay here. Do you have everything you need?”

“I'm just fine, but I'm a little worried about you. You're looking kind of pale.”

Sonja reached for another mug. “I just came to get some tea.”

“Can I interest you in some Kentucky bourbon? It's Cole's so I know it's the best.”

“No, thank you.” She started to add, “I don't drink,” but something in his eyes or maybe it was something inside her begged a question. “Who are you?”

He smiled. “Jack Spencer.”

Sonja relaxed a bit. “I think I'll take you up on that offer, Mr. Spencer.”

“Please, call me Jack.”

“All right, Jack.”

He poured her two fingers and she came around to join him on the sofa in the great room that abutted the kitchen. The air between them was easy, companionable, but laced with an expectancy that Sonja wasn't willing to examine too closely.

“So,” she said, settling her legs under her and facing him. “Tell me about yourself, Jack Spencer. Cole says you're his oldest friend, but I don't know a thing about you.”

Jack stared at her for a long time, so long that Sonja glanced down to make sure she was completely and appropriately covered.

“The main thing you need to know,” he said, “is that I'd never ignore a woman who brought me lunch for two in a picnic basket.”

Sonja's breath caught. Their gazes connected and held, one beat, two. She cleared her throat and then downed half of the liquid fire in her glass.

 

 

“Time's up, Khan.”

Dean Khan nodded toward the prison librarian. “I'm almost done.” His consistent good behavior had earned him extra time on the computer. But so far, his searches had come up empty.

From what he could tell, Rachel had pretty much vanished from the face of the earth. The number he'd had for her back when he'd first been convicted had long since been disconnected. Letters sent to the two addresses he had for her came back, one stamped Unknown Occupant and the other Address Unknown.

And he didn't get a single hit using the search engines available to him. He'd been searching for her for a while, but had come up against nothing but dead ends. Now though, with his release date from Fairton imminent, he knew it would take little, if any, time to find her once he had the proper resources available to him. And the best place to begin the hunt for his former girlfriend was with her roommate.

But before reclaiming his business enterprises, before tracking down Rachel and her ditzy roommate, before seeing if there was anything salvageable from his previous life, including the stuff he'd put in storage, before anything, Dean wanted to feel the sun on his face knowing that his access to it wouldn't be restricted. He wanted to swim in the ocean again. And he wanted—no, he needed—to get laid. Prison sex served a purpose. But he hadn't entered Fairton a punk and he wasn't leaving that way.

Just as soon as he got the basics taken care of, he'd find that bitch Rachel and stick it to her just like she'd done him.

 

 

That night, Sonja lay awake in bed, Cole beside her. But her mind didn't linger on him, it was with the man three doors down in the beige guest room.

 

 

Virginia Heart glanced at the cruise brochures Lily had given her that day. She hadn't been on a cruise in a long time. The last one had been on her twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. She'd toasted herself on the lido deck while her husband banged a waitress in their cabin.

 

 

In her e-mail program, Vicki drafted a short note to Clayton. It said everything she wanted to tell him, and it opened the door she'd been trying to keep closed.

“It's time,” she whispered in the dark room, the glow of the monitor the only light.

For a long while she stared at the photo, then she scanned it, attached it to the message and pressed Send before she lost her nerve.

The printout she'd made of one of Clayton's photos showed a fair-skinned man in shorts on the back deck of a house. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his thighs. Sunglasses shielded his eyes from the glare of the afternoon sun.

He had an open face. An honest face. Vicki was comforted by that.

Now that she'd sent the message and the photo, their relationship would change. She didn't know if she was ready for that though. Only time would tell the tale.

9

T
he used condoms were the last straw.

Lance's patience had been worn completely out.

This morning, he'd smiled as he followed Viv's directions, dressing in old jeans, a sweatshirt and sneakers. But his easygoing smile couldn't be found now.

“This is your idea of a date?”

Viv, outfitted in a pair of Farmer Jack coveralls, had her hair pulled up and tucked in a baseball cap. Not a bit of the sexy vamp showed in the getup.

They stood outside in the already sweltering humidity of a Tidewater morning, about to pick up trash from the side of a roadway.

“Community service. It's good for the soul.”

Lance had had more than enough community service this week. First T.J. and a bunch of juvie delinquent wanna-bes, now this.

They were out on the side of a long stretch of road that seemed to be the personal trash dump for every passing motorist. Twenty-five feet ahead was an Adopt-a-Spot sign with Neighbors in Action listed as the sponsor.

Viv handed him a pair of heavy-duty leather gloves. Reluctantly, Lance accepted them. Had he known this was what she'd had in mind as a “date” he'd have put on some old Levi's, not a pair of $350 jeans designed to look worn. On second thought, if he'd realized this was what she'd had in mind, he probably would have begged off.

“Let's get going,” Viv said. A truck slowly approached. Two people got out and tugged on gloves. A guy hanging from the cab placed orange cones on the roadway, directing drivers to steer around the volunteers.

“Hey, Viv. Good seeing you again.”

Vivienne waved. “Hi, Charlie. I brought some help this time.”

“All hands welcome,” he called back. A second later he tossed a package at their feet, then the truck moved on.

“What's that?” Lance asked, eyeing the brown bundle.

“Plastic bags.” Viv reached for and untied the bundle. She separated the dark plastic from the see-through bags. “Cans and bottles and anything that can be recycled goes in the clear ones. Trash in the other. Ready?”

No.

But there was little he could do about it. So he tried not to think about the germs and diseases that could be harbored in the debris littering the edge of the road and its adjacent gully.

Three hours later, Lance stood at his car, reluctant to get in it.

“The least you could do is offer a man a shower.”

“Dream on,” Viv told him.

The cleanup job was done and Lance was loath to get in his Jag smelling the way he knew he did. He'd have to take the car in to be detailed if for nothing else but his peace of mind.

“A little hard work won't kill you.”

“It's not work I'm afraid of,” Lance snapped. “God, you do this every weekend?”

“It probably should be done that often,” Viv conceded, taking a look at the now cleared stretch of road. “It wouldn't be so tough of a job if we did. But right now it's just once a month.”

His expression clearly indicated he thought that was too often. “Aren't you worried about ticks?”

Viv laughed. “You are a city boy, aren't you?”

“Apparently.”

“Well, tell you what. You get yourself all refreshed, I'll do the same, then we'll get together for a dinner date.”

He looked at her with interested caution. “My definition of a date or yours?”

Viv's laughter still rang in his ears as Lance dressed for their dinner. And he once again cursed himself for living all the way on the Peninsula. The first thing Monday morning he'd look into a place in South Hampton Roads, Virginia Beach in particular. Now though wasn't the time to focus on real estate. And a little while later it would be the woman, not anything else that would hold him captive.

“I take it this is what you had in mind?”

Lance glanced around the noisy bar. “Not exactly. The next time we do this, I plan the evening.”

Viv's gaze met his over the top of a wineglass. “All right.”

Lance raised an eyebrow in question. “Did you just agree to go out with me again?”

“Sure. We can go over the business plan I gave you.”

Lance thought about that for a moment. “Tell you what. Let's ditch this place and go do just that. I know a great takeout place. We can work and have a meal.”

Viv raised an eyebrow, but she picked up her bag and followed him. A little while later, they sat together in her office at Guilty Pleasures, boxes of take-out Thai pushed aside.

The change in him surprised her. The Lance she was used to seeing and dealing with was all about having a good time. This Lance barely noticed the low-cut blouse she'd deliberately worn. He pointed to a graph on a page listing an earnings estimate.

“These numbers seem high.”

Viv floundered for a moment but rallied quickly. “They are actually conservative.” She pulled out a report on her target demographics and showed it to him.

Lance studied the information for a moment. “Have you purchased a mailing list?”

Viv shook her head. “We have one from the store. I have a pretty extensive promotion plan for the pajama party. That will draw in new clientele. Door prizes and giveaways will be targeted at getting the customers who attend to recommend friends.”

“What's this pajama party?”

Viv explained the five-hour event Guilty Pleasures would host. “We're in the planning stages right now.”

She needed to get a handle on the process the Hearts went through before investing in a project. “So what's the structure and process for applying for investment funding? Is there a foundation or board of directors that decides?”

“Decides what?”

“Whether to fund a project? This project.”

Lance snorted. “Trust me, Viv. My family doesn't do much by way of charitable or philanthropic giving. And since the breakup of the stores, the only investments they make are ones designed to line individual pockets, not the wallets of entrepreneurs.”

Viv's heart sank. Then she got pissed. “Then why are you making me go through all of this? If you aren't serious you're wasting my time—and yours.”

He glanced up at her. “I am serious, Vivienne. I want to get a feel for what you're offering before making a commitment.”

She smirked. “I have to give it to you, Lance. You're smooth and you're quick on your feet.”

He took off the glasses, tucked them in his jacket pocket and rubbed his eyes. “Thanks. I think. Now, tell me about the second phase, the additional stores. Do you already have preliminary lease agreements or were you considering franchise opportunities?”

“I think you should leave.”

Lance glanced up at her. Viv stood, her hands on her hips.

“Did I miss something?”

“I told you I wasn't interested in sleeping with you again. I meant it. You don't need to go through this charade,” she said, letting a hand fly, encompassing the papers spread out on the desk.

“Charade?”

Viv closed her eyes and breathed deeply. “I should have known this was all a game to you, but I don't see anything funny about it, Lance. What you're doing is cruel.”

The easy smile fell from his face. “Back up about five paces and tell me what's gotten you in such a snit all of a sudden.”

“You just said your family doesn't do any project funding or financing, so why are you sitting there pretending like you're gathering information for an investment?”

“I am.”

“Get out, Lance.” She shut the folders and marched to the door, standing sentinel, fully expecting him to heed her orders and depart.

Instead, Lance leaned back, got even more comfortable on the love seat.

“Viv, I think you misunderstood something.”

“I heard everything you said. And heard it very well, thank you.”

He leaned forward. “Viv, any investment I make in Guilty Pleasures will be a personal investment. My family has nothing to do with it.”

“What?” Realization slowly seeped into her anger-addled brain. “A personal investment?” He had that much money?

He nodded.

“But I'm talking about a lot of money here, Lance. A
lot
of money. To launch a full-color catalog and then expand the business by opening new stores, that takes a lot of capital.”

“Yeah, and?”

Viv staggered and reached for the doorknob to camouflage the stumble. He had that kind of money—at his personal disposal? He was richer than she'd imagined. And he was serious about investing in her company?

Viv's plans suddenly took on a whole new light. Slowly she walked to where he sat and carefully took a seat across from him.

“What was that question you had about leases and franchises ?”

 

 

“How long is Jack going to be here?” Sonja Pride asked her husband.

They stood in the dressing room of their large bedroom suite, Cole shaving at his mirror while Sonja sat at her vanity applying makeup.

“I'm not sure. Probably just a few weeks. He has a shoot coming up in Tanzania. Did you get a chance to talk with him? He's a really great guy.”

Sonja paused with the blusher brush in mid-stroke on her cheek. She stared in the mirror at her husband's back. With any other man she might have thought this was a test, but Cole wasn't that kind. Still, she remained wary. Nothing had happened between her and Jack. But she'd sure thought about it. A lot.

“We didn't spend much time visiting.”

“You should,” Cole said. “Ask him to show you some of his work. I think you'll like it.”

Sonja ran the cosmetic brush across her cheek then lightly across her forehead. “All right, Cole. I will.”

 

 

By the following week, Lance felt he had a pretty good handle on what the lingerie business was all about. He'd bought his share before meeting Vivienne, but now he knew why men gravitated to certain types, and why women, when they weren't trying to impress men, preferred comfort over style. Viv had found the merchandise that allowed her female customers to have the comfort they wanted without sacrificing style and then she taught them how to please their men with the other sexy underthings.

Lance would have guessed that Viv had a degree in psychology. She just laughed him off though and said she'd make a better anthropologist than therapist. Lance was inclined to agree.

What he didn't like though was the way she always seemed to adroitly deflect his advances.

Whenever he tried to steer them back to that night at the Marriott, Viv acted like it had never happened.

And that irritated him.

So now, when he should have been focused on the kids he was about to meet at the rec center, he was obsessed with developing a plan to get Vivienne back in his bed.

“An odd delivery came today,” Tyrone said.

“Yeah? What?”

“Packages for you. Boxes. Lots of them. I hope you didn't do what I think you did.”

Lance turned his full attention to T.J. “Oh yeah. I forgot about that.”

“I had them locked up in the room you used last week. Lance, what have you done?”

Lance told him about the conversation the group had had the previous week and the plan he'd hatched while talking to them.

“You did what?” Tyrone was beside himself. “You can't bribe them with stuff like that.”

“It's not a bribe,” Lance said. “You told me to be a ‘mentor' to these kids. Well, everybody I know has and uses these. They should, too.”

T.J. looked at the five sets of boxes and the five accompanying shopping bags. He shook his head. “This is insane.”

“It's an experiment,” Lance said. “If it doesn't work, I'll just write it off as a tax donation to the rec center.”

“I'd prefer a check,” Tyrone said dryly.

“All right,” Lance said.

Tyrone's gaze lifted from the merchandise. “What?”

“I'll write you a check.”

Tyrone shook his head. “Man, I didn't bring you down here to hit you up for cash.”

“I know,” Lance said, his voice quiet. “That's why I want to.”

“I love these kids,” Tyrone said as he peered into the bags. “And I know them. As much as I hate to admit it, this is like throwing money out of a window or setting it on fire.”

“We'll see.”

T.J. glanced up. “So, like, uh, did you get one for me?”

A little while later, Lance stood before the five teenagers. Shonda, his little would-be Parisian of much profanity. Blake, the budding musician. Ro'Shaun, better known as Ro. Fly, whose real name Lance had yet to deduce. And Chrysanthemum, who he wished had a nickname.

“What's in the bags?” Chrysanthemum called.

“Some things I got for you. But first we establish a contract.”

“Contract? I ain't signing shit,” Shonda said.

“This is an oral contract.”

The boys slid sly looks at one another.

“Oral as in spoken. Verbally.”

“Oh yeah. Right,” Fly said. “My bad. I was thinking . . .”

“I know what you were thinking. We're not going there.”

The teen shrugged.

“As I was saying . . .”

“Is that burgundy Jag really yours?” Ro'Shaun interrupted.

“Yes.”

“Can I drive it?”

“No,” Lance snapped. “Look, I can take my shit and go home.”

Shonda wagged a finger in front of his face. “R-E-S-P-EC-T.”