Enchanted Heart (6 page)

Ahead, about a mile out, he saw the flashing blue lights of a state trooper and decelerated. This day had already put a dent in his wallet without adding a speeding ticket to the mix. He tried to leave those to Mallory and Cole who snapped up speeding infractions the way discount shoppers hit the blue light specials at K-mart.

By the time he pulled into his parking spot in the garage of his building it was quite late and Lance was actually starting to wind down. He'd had a long day, and an even longer one awaited him tomorrow. He waved at the doorman and the security guard then made his way to the penthouse apartment he'd bought three years ago.

He'd barely stepped in the door before stripping off his tie. With a remote that stayed on a table in the foyer he powered up the sound system. Easy jazz, the soothing alto of Norah Jones, filled the sometimes too-silent rooms. Lance headed to his bedroom, but paused to admire the horizon outside his windows as he stripped. He truly had a bird's-eye view. Stepping out onto the balcony, he watched a barge slowly move along the James River. To his left, the lights of the shipyard gleamed in the night.

Lance took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the fresh air of the early morning. The stillness pacified him, as it always did. So he stood there for a while reviewing his day. All thoughts led to Vivienne la Fontaine. Try as he might, he couldn't nail what was going on with her. He headed toward his closet.

Was she married? Engaged? Maybe it was guilt that made her run.

He'd known she was going to be expensive. He just hadn't figured on quite how much.

The Heart family controlled a significant amount of wealth and influence not just in the Hampton Roads region, but across the state of Virginia. Lance had his share, which was more than enough to keep him idle for a long, long time. Even so, he didn't like unnecessarily wasting money—another thing that would come as a surprise to his grandmother, who was perpetually on his case about making something of his life.

An hour's romp with Vivienne la Fontaine had cost him not just the room they'd too briefly shared, but a week at the Marriott's rack rate plus meals and valet parking for two little old ladies from Pulaski, Virginia. Then there would be the floral and jeweler's bills required to placate Rochelle, the woman he'd stood up at Cloud 9.

“And I didn't even get a decent meal out of the night.”

As if to remind him of that insult, his stomach growled. He came out of his suit, shirt, T-shirt and socks, carefully hanging the suit in a closet that stretched the length of the apartment.

Lance took pride in his closet. While Aunt Justine had designed it, Lance gave it his own stamp of approval.
GQ
magazine had even done a feature on it. Lance had been perturbed that the magazine ran three photos of his closet and not a single one of him. He still angled for a cover, but hadn't quite settled on how to best finagle that deal yet.

But Vivienne la Fontaine, lingerie store owner and former cover model, could help him in that regard.

“If I can figure out what set her off,” he muttered.

He marked the laundry for the service to pick up in the morning, then set out the gym clothes he'd need for handball with his boy T.J. He was supposed to be at the rec center at nine-thirty. What sane person wanted to be up at that ungodly hour?

Satisfied that he knew what he'd wear the coming day, he padded barefoot and in his underwear to the kitchen. Front and center in the Sub-Zero refrigerator: three bottles of a Petit Noir, some brie and plump grapes—the after-sex snack he'd planned to share with Rochelle. Ignoring the cheese, he plucked out a cluster of grapes, spied and snagged a bottle of Heineken then scrounged for some crackers and snatched up a cordless to check his messages.

Five awaited him.

“Yo, Heart. Don't forget. We have the court at nine-thirty. I'm gonna whip your ass so don't be late.”

Lance chuckled. “In your dreams, Tyrone.”

He deleted the message and moved on. Rochelle's voice, coy and sexy, purred in his ear, chiding him for keeping her waiting.

“Hi, Lance. I'm at the restaurant. You're really going to love this place. The bartender said you'd started a tab. See you in a bit. Ciao.”

A beep later. “Lance? Where are you? Call me on my cell. And you need to give me yours.”

“Don't think so, babe,” he said.

The next one, also Rochelle, carried a decidedly different tone—pissed off.

“It's nine o'clock, Lance. Since you're obviously not joining me here I took the liberty of ordering a very expensive meal and a bottle of Dom. It was excellent. The manager assured me he'd bill it all to you.”

Lance rolled his eyes and eighty-sixed the plan to send her a sparkly trinket. Flowers would do. Right then, before he forgot, he called his florist's private line and placed two orders, one for Vivienne and one for Rochelle. The manager was used to his late-night messages, maintained a discreet record of Lance's frequent recipients, and could be counted on to deliver appropriate arrangements.

Chewing around a cracker, he left the order.

“Hey, it's Lance Smith. Two things to be delivered in the morning. Something elegant, maybe calla lilies, for a new friend. And roses to Rochelle. Check your records. I think she's the one who likes pink roses.” He left the address for Vivienne's shop, finished off the grapes and went to the pantry in search of something heartier.

When the microwave beeped, Lance snatched out the bag of popcorn and headed to his bedroom. He turned the television on and channel-surfed while he punched in the number to listen to the rest of his messages.

The fifth message was from his grandmother. He winced when he heard her voice.

“Lance, dear, you haven't been by to see me in some time. I'll expect you for lunch tomorrow in the garden. At twelve-thirty.”

Lance groaned.

Few, if any, ways existed to get out of a command appearance at the compound. Lance would know. He'd been attempting to avoid them since the ripe old age of five, when his grandmother called him on the carpet for taking imported calla lilies from a vase in the foyer and presenting them, dripping on an Aubusson rug, to a gorgeous, but unimpressed eight-year-old girl. The girl, the daughter of an important business associate, had, however changed her mind about young Lance when he whispered a few things in her ear. Virginia Heart caught up with the two children when first giggling and then a girlish squeal emanated from behind heavy drapes in the parlor where the adults had retreated for coffee and brandy.

Lance had been trying his grandmother's patience ever since.

There was no way she could have heard about the incident at the Marriott that fast. That left only one other reason for a summons from Virginia Heart: She'd found out about something else he'd done. Despite her pleasant-sounding message delivered in that imperial tone that only Ginny Heart could affect, he knew he was in for it, one way or another.

5

R
efusing to have anything to do with Heart Federated that still maintained offices and a minimal staff, Cole leased a suite in a waterfront building in downtown Hampton. His fourth-floor suite in Harbor Centre overlooked the river and the campus of Hampton University. His office was several blocks and a mindset away from his former workplace.

“Well, well. Look at the big-shot businessman.”

Cole glanced up and grinned at the man standing in the open doorway. “You're a sight for sore eyes, my friend.”

Cole shook Jack Spencer's hand. Then, still grinning, the two men hugged, acknowledging the friendship that had spanned many years.

Jack Spencer was a rugged man. He looked more like a wild river outfitter than anyone who'd ever adapted to the staid halls of academe or the buttoned down and insular environment of the corporate world. Yet, he'd done both, a long, long time ago. And he'd decided to never again put himself in the middle of constricting situations over which he had no control. If he had to give up control, Jack Spencer preferred that it be a fair fight: him against nature. So, instead of claiming his defection as a “strategic retreat”—Cole's words—Jack had always maintained that he opted for sanity.

That's if sanity could be described as running through war-torn, vermin-infested, and famine-stricken corners of the world lugging camera equipment and film worth more than any one of the villagers he encountered might earn in six lifetimes.

“You look like hell,” Cole told him now.

Jack grinned. “So you do.”

Jack ran a hand over the rough beard on his chin and took in both Cole and the office. “Looks like being HNIC has been good to you.”

Cole chuckled at the old joke between them. Back when they'd first met, the two were on the fast track in the corporate world, each competing to be the head black man in charge of the most, the biggest and the best. It had been a long time since Cole had thought about that. And an even longer time since anyone would have dared say something like that to his face.

Jack was different though.

He was still Jack.

Hard-living, hard-loving. He wrangled the most out of every moment of every day. With a slight twinge, Cole realized he was a little jealous of his friend's independence. Through the years, they'd managed to keep in touch, if only through a phone call every few years. As friends went, Jack was the closest Cole had ever had.

When Cole first traveled to Brazil, a cultural trip designed to be a working vacation, after seeing the wildness and the potential there, he'd thought of his old friend. Jack would know how to handle himself in the back alleys and countryside of Bahia. Cole was now fluent in Portuguese, but Jack, who spoke five languages and could get by in another two, brought an entirely different dimension to the project.

“So, you're sure you're ready to invest the money you've been stashing away all these years?” Cole asked. “It's not too late to back out.”

Jack grinned. “It's not like there's anywhere to spend it in Bosnia or Somalia. I don't need much to live on. I started supplying venture capital seed money to some of the people I met along the way.” He shrugged. “My name's on a couple of schools,” he said, his grin even broader. “You know, Americans don't truly appreciate what they have. They drop hundreds of dollars on sneakers and designer labels. The money the average teen puts on his back can build a school that would teach an entire generation. By the way, I know I've been gone awhile, but who the hell is Hilfiger and what's a FUBU? That's all I've seen since I've been back in the States.”

Cole chuckled. “Don't ever change, Jack.”

Jack paused in his inspection of Cole's office when he spotted a silver frame on the desk. He lifted it and stared down at the image.

“Beautiful woman. Picture from a magazine?”

Cole smirked. “Funny. That's my wife, Sonja.”

Jack looked genuinely surprised. “Get out. Somebody married you? What'd you do, drug her?”

Cole would have laughed, except there wasn't much funny or fun about his marriage anymore. “It's been a year. A rough year.”

“Hmm,” was all Jack said as he replaced the photo.

He'd never been one to pry. That was something Cole usually appreciated. Today, however, he would have preferred to unload on someone he could trust. He leaned on the edge of the desk.

“So, what's up? Everything's a go for Bahia, right?”

Cole held out a hand, inviting his old friend to sit. “That's what I wanted to talk with you about. I've been going over the figures, and frankly, I'm not sure if we're covered for three years.”

Jack shrugged and leaned forward so he could access his checkbook. “All right, how much you need?”

“It shouldn't come from us,” Cole said. “We're already heavily entailed. I've been thinking about bringing in a third major party.”

“Who?”

Cole produced a legal pad and handed it to Jack. “There are three names on that short list. Two corporations and one individual. All three are committed to social progress in undeveloped areas. They want strong cultural ties in areas with resources to exploit.”

“Exploit?”

Cole held up a hand, staving off the objection. “Not the way you're thinking. I know how you feel about that.”

Though he'd reject the label, Jack Spencer was a tree-hugging environmentalist of the first order.

“It's like having a bright kid who lives in the East End of Newport News,” Cole explained. “The kid has an absent single mother, a bunch of brothers and sisters to watch and no real future in sight. But he tests out with a 1400 on the SAT.”

“Improbable.”

“But it could happen.”

Jack shrugged.

“That natural talent just needs the right resources to make it blossom.”

“Hmm,” was all Jack said again as he looked over the list. “Is this Partnership for Pride legit? Sounds like code language for an alternative lifestyle group.”

Cole nodded.

Jack looked at the list then at Cole. Without another word the big man tossed the tablet aside. It landed on the desk with a thwack. Neither man spared it a glance. Jack leaned back on the edge of the desk. “All right,” he said. “Tell me about the real third investor.”

“You know me too well.”

 

 

Lance never quite knew what to expect when he arrived at his grandmother's home. The house itself, circa mid-1920s, was at the end of a quiet street of six well-maintained homes on extra-large lots. Old trees and expensive landscaping buffered each property. His grandparents, Virginia and Coleman Heart II, had decided to stay in the community that supported their stores, but that didn't mean they had to live
among
the people.

The Hearts were the first and only blacks on the street. And they'd kept it that way through the years.

Lance had heard assorted stories about just how that had transpired. One story went that they'd had to go to court to be allowed to purchase the property, the former owners and the next-door neighbors opposed to having coloreds on the street. Another version went that Coleman and Virginia had paid the neighbors to shut up and accept them. Knowing his grandparents, the latter seemed the more likely scenario. After six months of chilly reception Cole's father had wanted to bail but Virginia demanded that they stay, at least for a year, so it didn't seem as if they were running scared or putting on airs. Forty-five years later, Virginia was still there.

Funny how that whole thing worked out. Lance loved her, but his grandmother was pure bourgeois. She may have remained in the community, but on her terms. She'd become the doyenne with whom to be reckoned. Today, the compound held the main house, two outbuildings, a tennis court, pool, and a four-car garage that had been added in the late 70s. The property was the biggest on the street because Virginia owned the land next door as well. She'd snatched it up when the next-door neighbors decided not to rebuild after a fire. They'd retired to Florida, and with the stroke of a pen on a check, Virginia had doubled the size of her estate. Today, she reigned as an old-money denizen and remained as aloof as ever.

Although she preferred it, Lance never went to the back entrance to the house. Something about that whole back door thing rubbed him the wrong way—even though he had to walk completely through the house to get to the patio garden where he knew she spent most of her time.

He rang the front bell and waited for Penelope, the longtime live-in maid, to answer. A few minutes later, he was escorted into the day room.

“Hello, Grandmother.” She insisted on the formality with him, though Lance could never figure out why.

The other grandkids called her Grams or G-Ma Ginny. He'd never been permitted that familiarity and assumed it had to do with being the purported Heart heir. That burden was one Lance would have easily shed and willingly handed over to one of his cousins—if any of them would just step to the plate and take the responsibility away from him. But apparently, they, too, had no desire to get involved in the day-to-day business of Heart Federated.

With everyone else sufficiently busy, that left Lance, the only Heart heir with no visible means of independent support beyond the family's wealth, stuck in Virginia's crosshairs.

And that, he figured, was why he'd been summoned today. His grandmother couldn't possibly have found out about the incident at the Marriott.

“Ah, there you are.” Virginia glanced at a wall clock near the door. “You're late.”

“I got tied up in traffic.”

“I do believe that was the excuse you used the last time.”

Lance grinned, though he'd always suspected Virginia Heart might be immune to the charm with which he so easily wooed all other females, no matter the age, race or relation.

A few years ago, he'd reveled in the attention from Virginia. They were close, could talk about just about anything, and had a standing lunch date once a month. All of that changed though when Cole took over as head of the company. Seemingly overnight, Virginia changed from an adoring, indulgent grandmother into a woman he didn't recognize and sometimes wished he weren't related to. She was a steel magnolia, for sure, but one with poison ivy thriving at the base of her tree.

He kissed her on the cheek then settled in the chair directly across from hers. “So, how have you been?”

For a moment she didn't say anything. Lance squelched the desire to groan. So this would be one of
those
visits. Mentally, he catalogued all the things she might be pissed about. There were many. But he felt certain she didn't know about the Marriott incident. At least he prayed she didn't.

Penelope settled a Bloody Mary in front of Virginia and turned to Cole. “How's it going, Penny?”

The maid cast a quick eye at Virginia, then nodded. “Everything's fine, Mr. Lance. You're looking well. What can I get you?”

Lance detested the whole Big House thing his grandmother had going with her employees—as well Penny knew. Virginia must really be in a mood.

“Coke with lemon.”

She gave a little bob that he could have sworn was a curtsy. Normally, Penny flirted with him a little even though their affair had lasted but a week many years ago. Today, she was playing her wide-eyed Mammy role straight out of
Gone with the Wind,
complete with kowtowing references to Mr. Lance and Miss Virginia. Lance wondered if Virginia even knew that Penelope aspired to acting.

The maid brought the soda in then disappeared as quietly as she'd come in.

“She's fifteen years older than you,” Virginia said on a dry note.

Lance knew better than to respond to that bait. “Your roses are lovely this year, Grandmother.”

Virginia sipped from her drink.

Lance searched for another conversation topic, careful to steer clear of the minefield, which included any Cole-related news, guaranteed to set her off. Also on the verboten list: Lance's mother. Virginia never asked about her and Lance never volunteered any information. So, he asked after Lily Renaldi, Virginia's best friend. Then he commented, quite lamely, on the weather, her dress, and a book he'd read to which she raised an eyebrow.

“I do read, Grandmother.” He took a sip of soda and plucked the lemon off the rim of the glass to suck on it—he knew it would annoy her.

“Lance, I think it's time you got married.”

He choked on the wedge of fruit. The coughing fit lasted a bit. Virginia calmly waited for him to get himself together. His strangled laugh could have been amused consent or bitter resentment. Stunned, even Lance wasn't sure which it was.

“What would make you suggest such a thing?”

“It's time you settled down,” she said. “You're twenty-eight.”

“Cole didn't get married until he was more than thirty.”

Her eyes narrowed and her mouth clutched into a pucker as if she'd been the one clamping down on a lemon. “You're not Cole.”

Lance rushed to fix the error. “I know. I just meant there's plenty of time for marriage.”

“When?”

He shrugged, tried to maintain an air of casual respect. He had to get her off this train. “Later. When the, uh, time is right.”

Virginia eyed him and Lance hoped the panic he felt on the inside didn't show on the outside. His heart raced as if he'd run a marathon. He'd known. He'd always known that his secret would get him in trouble one day. If Virginia pressed this marriage thing he was gonna be in a heap of trouble.