Authors: Liv James
“If you’re her old friend shouldn’t you
already know that?” Meg asked.
Jon tried to keep his voice from showing
his frustration. He didn’t have time to play games.
“I’m concerned about her. I saw her in Tulsa a few days ago and
then she just sort of disappeared. I want to know if she’s safely there with
you or if I need to send out a search party.”
“She’s here. She’s fine,” Meg said, the
edge leaving her voice. “Not at the office, but back home. I saw her running at
the park on Saturday. Shall I tell her you called?”
He thought for a moment, relief washing
over him.
“No. That’s okay. I’ll try to get in touch
with her again. Is she staying with Bill?”
“No,” Meg said. “She’s staying out at the
bungalow. I don’t think there’s a phone out there yet, though.”
“That’s okay, I’ll try her cell again.”
“Oh, I don’t think she has it. Her mother
said something about her needing to get a new one.”
That explained why he hadn’t been able to
reach her.
“Can you do me a favor?” Jon asked,
suddenly realizing how easily he’d gotten all the information he needed from
Meg.
“Depends on what it is.”
“If anyone else calls asking about Clara
don’t tell them what you just told me.”
“Why not?” she asked. He could almost see
her shaking her head like he was a nut.
“Because I think she was hoping to spend
some time alone,” he said, not wanting to tell her that Clara might be in
danger.
“I don’t think that’s true,” Meg said.
“Besides, you’re not the only one who’s concerned about Clara. I had two other
calls this morning about her.”
Jon’s stomach dropped.
“Who?”
“Some guy who said he wanted to send her a
package and a woman who needed her address to mail a letter. She must have
moved without leaving a forwarding address or something.”
“They were from Tulsa?”
“Yes, I think so,” she said. Jon could hear
the phone clicking as she surfed through the numbers in the caller ID.
“918 area code.”
“Okay,” he said. “Thanks Meg.”
“No problem. I’ll give Bill your message.”
He hung up the phone.
“Shit!” he said aloud. “Son of a bitch.”
“In here cursing at yourself now?” Marcy
asked, walking into his office.
“What do you have for me?” he demanded. He
could feel his heart pounding as he tried to keep from vaulting out of the
office and taking off to Tulsa
to take care of Carpenter once and for all.
“Not much yet. I called Pete and he’s
checking on it. I just wanted to come in here to see if you were settled down
enough to tell me what the hell is going on.”
He glanced up at Marcy standing in the
doorway.
“I think Clara might be in danger.”
“Danger?” Marcy asked skeptically.
“Because of me.”
“Now you’re really confusing me.”
“That guy she was supposed to marry?”
“David Carpenter, yes.”
“He told me he was only marrying her to get
back at me.”
“Are you sure he said that?” Marcy asked, one
side of her mouth twisting. “I know your ego can go a little off the charts
some …”
“He said it, damn it. We bought his
father’s company and dismantled it and I guess the old man thought it would go
down differently.”
“What does Clara have to do with it?” Marcy
asked.
“David decided he could get back at me by
marrying her.”
Marcy stared at him, looking dumb-founded.
Then she poked an angry finger toward him.
“I told you that you should have gone after her,” she admonished.
“Yeah, no shit, Marcy. I’m going to fix
that. I just can’t believe this guy manipulated us like this.”
“So you want him to pay?”
“Yes. But now I’m worried that breaking off
the engagement wasn’t the end of it for him. I think he may be trying to find
out where Clara’s staying in Brighton.”
Marcy was quiet for a moment.
“That’s not too surprising … or sinister …
is it?” she finally said. “I mean they were going to be married in a couple of
months after all. Maybe he really did love her. Maybe
he’s
smart enough to go after her.”
Jon lowered his eyes at Marcy. “He doesn’t
love her. He as much as told me that. But that didn’t stop him from forcing
himself on her.”
“What?” Marcy asked, her eyes growing wide.
“After she broke it off with him. He …” Jon
stood up and slammed his fist into the table. “Get the hell out of here,” he
shouted. “I need that information on him now.”
“I’ll get it,” she said, putting a hand up
to stop him before he said anything else. She hurried back down the hall toward
her office.
Jon walked over to the window. He could see
the interstate snaking through the city below him. He followed it past the
Stockyards and out of the Metroplex toward the green fairways of the country
club.
That was where it had all gone to shit.
The day had started out fine enough, with
an intensely satisfying late morning romp at her apartment after a long night
in the office. They both felt so stoked, so victorious about closing the
Morlock-Corville plastics deal. It was the biggest merger Freedman ever
brokered and the company stood to make millions when they liquidated it down
the road. That deal cinched his bid for partner, and Clara was moving up behind
him fast.
The adrenaline of closing the deal, of
being “on” all the time, quick and smart, of watching Morlock and Corville
finally drop their last objections thanks to Clara’s expert handling of their
egos and emotions, it electrified them both.
The two companies would merge into a new
corporation, heavily owned by Freedman. Morlock and Corville would each walk
away with enough to secure several generations of their families. They’d be
long gone when Freedman began dismantling the corporation and selling it off
piece by piece for an obscene profit. While the owners knew the truth, Clara
convinced the rest of the executives that the companies could only survive
together, artfully neglecting to mention the probability of liquidation.
That night was all about celebrating the
merger, closing the deal at High Point Country Club over dinner with the top
fifty executives from each of the companies and the local and national business
press. For several days before Clara worked with Freedman’s public relations
team to prep the reporters and make sure the numbers all gibed and the story
looked like good news for Fort Worth.
The calculations – financial and social – were flawless.
They’d arrived at the country club
separately, still trying to pretend that they didn’t want to peel each other’s
clothes off the second they were alone in the office, or the hotel next door to
the office, if they couldn’t make it back to one of their places.
He arrived first. The ballroom was
carefully set with the corporate logos of all three companies on display, with
Freedman’s trademark flying eagle clamped to the podium. The new corporation’s
logo was there, too, hidden under a heavy navy blue drape that Morlock and
Corville were scheduled to remove with great fanfare later in the evening.
The tables were draped in dark blue cloths
with gold napkins fanned over first-rate china. The blue and gold theme was
carried through in magnificent towering centerpieces, a stunning visual effort
to embed the colors of the new corporation into the minds of the executives
who’d attend.
Uniformed wait staff passed through with
small trays of champagne poured in tall crystal flutes and expensive hors
d’oeuvres. A string quartet filled the room with light, celebratory music. Jon
knew no expense had been spared, but even he was taken back by the extravagance
of the evening.
He was standing in his tuxedo listening to
Freedman yammer when he saw Clara arrive. He caught her eye over Freedman’s
shoulder but continued to listen to him. He’d seen her dark blue cocktail dress
hanging on her closet door that morning, still wrapped in the clear plastic
from the dress shop, but he stumbled in his reply to Freedman when he saw her
in it. It was sleeveless and tastefully v-necked, just low enough to make his
eyes catch but not so much to make him lose his composure completely.
She made her way across the room, her dark
brown hair pulled up softly above the nape of her neck, the dress bringing out
the blue in her eyes. When she approached them Freedman took her hand and bent
slightly as he pulled it to his lips. He played at being old-fashioned that way
but Jon often wondered how much of it was chivalry and how much was the old
horn dog being lecherous.
She’d held out her hand to Jon, offering a
congratulatory shake, then excused herself and began to greet each of the
executives she’d worked with from both companies, continuing her expert
smoothing of feathers that she’d meticulously started a year earlier and
methodically continued until there were no arguments left. In essence she was
robbing them blind but they loved her and trusted her for it.
Jon watched her work the room, in awe as
always of her professionalism, wishing he could stand openly at her side, with
an arm slipped around her slender waist. He’d been surprised by that wave of
possessiveness, he remembered. It was a new sensation for him, brought on by
the hunger that stirred as he watched her and made stronger by the desire to
signal to all those executives who smiled at her that she was already spoken
for.
He wanted to propose after he made partner,
but he doubted Clara would accept if it meant giving up her own job to avoid
nepotism. He realized now that giving up his position had never even crossed
his mind.
The cocktail hour concluded and the
presentations began. Morlock was at the podium thanking his employees for all
the work they’d done over the past year to prepare for the merger. Corville was
next in line, and then Freedman would join them to unveil the new company logo.
The commotion started at the right rear
entrance of the ballroom.
As Morlock talked, his audience of
high-ranking executives strained to see who was struggling to make her way into
the room.
Clara was trying to ignore the intrusion
and show the speaker total attention, even raising her eyebrows in a “don’t be
rude” message to make Jon turn back around and pay attention. It wasn’t until
Morlock stopped talking that Jon saw Clara slowly glance toward the back of the
room.
By the time she got to her feet all the
color had washed from her face, making her pale against the dark backdrop of
her dress.
The disruption was being instigated by a
woman, about their age, with thick, blazingly blond shoulder-length hair that
had been crimped into zigzags. She wore dark blue like Clara, but in the form
of an extremely low-cut t-shirt and a denim miniskirt. Jon could see many of
the men in the room sitting back to take in the view.
When Clara stood, the woman pounced.
“Clara!” she half-yelled, half-slurred
across the hushed dining room.
“Clara freakin’ Spritzer!” she barked,
spittle spraying from her lips as she mouthed Clara’s last name.
“Rebecca,” Clara said evenly, “please come
with me.”
She’d walked over to the woman, appearing
small beside her sister’s exaggerated presence.
A camera flash momentarily lit the room.