The Doll Brokers (2 page)

“Problem?” Edmund choked on his water. “You'll still end up with over three and a half million dollars in profit.”

“Are
you
willing to guarantee it?” she shot back.

“
She
will.” Chow was equally as vehement. “The baby doll.”

Ann didn't roll her eyes, but she came close. “And I am the Virgin Mary.”

Edmund reached for his glass again.

Ann steeled herself for what was to come. Both humbled and emboldened by the negotiating process, she hoped she wasn't overplaying her strategy. She leaned back in her chair and closed her laptop. “I'm sorry, times have changed. These days, we're at the mercy of most buyers. It's their way or the proverbial highway. I don't relish being in this position but we have to face reality. Now, when we sit with a major retailer and get a number for a TV-advertised product, it's only a number, not an order. Then we wait. October Toy Fair followed by the fair in February, where the number gets adjusted—up or down. By March or April, we might
get official confirmation for ten percent of the original quantity we were promised. The balance goes into limbo until they see if the doll starts to sell.”

“It will,” Edmund said earnestly.

“Unless someone comes up with something better,” she pointed out.

“There's no better doll—”

“Maybe not, but there are always new innovations, some new toy that could come along. It only takes one to cause a craze, and then this little doll would get bypassed and pressed into cold storage. At your terms, Hart Toy would go broke.”

Edmund reached for his napkin and dabbed at his mouth. “We might be able to compromise,” he said. “As I mentioned, the designer is my friend.”

“Friend-
schmend
.” Ann drank from her glass and wished fervently for a Scotch. Later, she thought. It would be her reward once the deal had closed.

She sat up straighter and forced herself to focus. She could not allow that unsophisticated Newark girl to show herself. She re-crossed her legs and sat back. Chow took a pen and pad from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and turned Ann's laptop toward him to use the calculator. “We can reduce the royalty to twelve percent.”

“No dice.”

“What do you want then?” he asked, exasperated.

“Seven percent. Two-year contract. Advance against royalties of one million the first year, half a million for the second. I also want the rights to the rest of the world at one-third of the U.S. advance.”

Chow and Koji stared at each other

“I can go for ten percent on the royalty,” Chow said. “Not a penny lower.”

“Nine,” Ann said automatically.

He shook his head.

It was like pulling teeth without an anesthetic. As each part of the agreement was resolved, Ann felt her nerve slipping. The risk was explicit. Felicia may have wanted this doll, but Ann was the newly appointed president of Hart Toy, and the doll's success would ultimately be her responsibility.

Percentages washed through her head as the haggling continued. They were too far along in the process to call a timeout. Within a half-hour, they had reached an agreement. Her palms had become damp, she could sense the slight sheen on her forehead, but it was done.

Less than ten minutes later, Ann watched Koji and Chow exit the lobby bar. She collected her laptop and briefcase, then stood, her legs not quite as steady as she would have liked. She headed towards the part of the bar she preferred—the one with the windows facing Broadway, and a panoramic view of neon. The atmosphere was more congenial here, a place to socialize rather than conduct business. The men no longer outnumbered the women, and some of the women were dressed for a night on the town, formal dresses and the odd gown, costume jewelry and just as many diamonds.

She eased up to the bar and let her business paraphernalia take her place on the stool. She stood there for a moment, then reached into her hair and pulled out the clip that held it in a respectable twist. It fell to her shoulders, sleek and straight and yellow-blond. Pulling at it slightly, she felt a release of tension in her scalp. She flashed a smile at the bartender. “Glenlivet. Two fingers. Rocks on the side,” she said.

She turned again, digging into her briefcase for her cell phone, and tapped in Felicia's number. When the woman answered, she let out a short laugh. “Damn, I'm good.”

“I know that, dear.” There was a pause. “So tell me your news. Did you get me that beautiful doll?”

“I did. And with any luck, she won't send us to the poor house.”

“Thank you.”

The simple words made Ann's stomach lurch. “Felicia, please, you know I hate it when you say that. You never,
ever
have to thank me. For anything.”

Felicia didn't rise to the argument. It was an old one. “Bring me the contract in the morning.”

“I plan to do just that.”

“And enjoy your Scotch.”

Felicia knew her so well. Ann brought the glass to her lips and sipped. “I will.” She paused. “I love you.”

“I know that, too. Good night.”

The line disconnected. Ann dropped the cell back into her briefcase.
Please, God, please, let this deal work.
She took another swallow of Glenlivet. She closed her eyes briefly and repeated her silent prayer. When she opened them, the Scotch almost came back up her throat.

She had been right, after all, she thought. Someone
had
been following her. Standing behind her, watching her in the mirror, dark eyes smoldering, was the one man she knew would never share Felicia's opinion of her, the one person who didn't think she was good at all.

J
onathan Morhardt dropped a hip onto the stool beside her. “I'll have a Sierra Nevada,” he said to the bartender. “The Pale. And refresh whatever the lady is having. It's on my tab.”

“Thanks for the offer, but this lady is leaving.” Ann took her credit card from her wallet and snapped it against the bar.

“Don't let me run you off.” His brows climbed in a challenge, dark brown hair topping a face that was a little too chiseled to be called handsome. But at thirty-five he had hazel poet's eyes that were mesmerizing, and the hint of a smile that was both mischievous and intriguing.

Ann hated surprises. Seeing him here unexpectedly took the wind out of her. She looked sideways at him, trying to assess the situation, and felt for an instant his hatred of her. Or was it merely hostile indifference? It had been seventeen years since she'd come to live with Jonathan and his family. A lost sixteen year-old. In all that time she had yet to get a handle on his true feelings towards her. The acrimony that had always seemed to exist between them was intensified by her own suppressed desire, the need to know him better that had always been denied.

She touched a manicured fingernail to the edge of her credit card and slid it back toward herself. “On second thought, I
don't want to deny you the chance to spend money on me.” She looked over her glass at him and took a sip of her drink. Their bickering was safe, secure, familiar ground. It was eminently more comfortable than negotiating the biggest deal of her career.

“Good,” he replied.

“Aren't you out of your element?” she asked, knowing he gravitated towards darker, moodier places.

“A sacrifice worthy of the cause,” he said. “I'm here to keep an eye on you.”

Consternation turned her muscles to wood. She hadn't noticed him in the other room when she scanned the place. That in itself bothered her, but not half so much as his stated purpose and apparent lack of trust in her. Had he come here on his own volition, or had he been sent by Felicia or Patrick?

Ann had never hurt Jonathan, had never infringed on his territory. They were removed from each other because of his lack of interest in Hart Toy. Patrick, of course, was a different story. Of Felicia's two remaining sons, Patrick had reason to despise her. She'd stolen his thunder, but Patrick did not have the capability or talent to grow the company or even run it. She would not feel guilty over that. But Jonathan was quite a bit different. He had the smarts to run the family business but wanted no part of it.

Ann had always been aware that it would take her forever to convince Jonathan that she'd never asked for the things Felicia had given her. Years ago, she had relinquished that battle. He had always questioned her motives and no matter what she said it seemed he couldn't, or wouldn't, believe her.

Jonathan Morhardt was his father's son. Frederick had kept a step clear of Hart Toy, too, at least as much of it as he had lived to witness. He was a dreamer, and profit margins were alien to them both.

“Your brother sent you,” Ann said now, forcing a tone of bored acceptance.

“I haven't spoken to him in weeks,” Jonathan offered.

“Then what interest could
you
possibly have in my meeting?”

“As I said, I'm keeping an eye on things. I refuse to let you destroy everything my mother has built.”

“Oh? You think I'd act on my own?”

“I don't know what to think. And that's the problem. So, tell me—how much of Felicia's money
did
you spend?”

“Seventy-five percent of what she authorized. Your inheritance is safe.”

“I don't care about the money; Felicia is my concern.”

Ann reached for her drink, just to prove to herself, to him, that her stomach was fine. She had been living with the Morhardts—with Felicia and Patrick, Jonathan and Matthew—for all of four months when Jonathan first discovered her weakness. She wasn't comfortable in their well-to-do home with its lush carpets and big rooms filled with beautiful things. She knew who she was—the abandoned daughter of a drug addict. Homeless with nowhere to turn, she'd spent those first four months in a type of dreamlike limbo, waiting for Felicia to turn on her, kick her out, become a person who would break her.

Instead, Felicia had showed her nothing but gentle kindness. And in their home, on the eve of a party celebrating Felicia's fifty-fifth birthday, she'd brought Ann a dress, a sleek, shimmering azure sheath that still hung in her closet. It had caught the blue of her eyes, had sculpted her skinny frame into something that was somehow voluptuous and provocative. Ann allowed herself to fall in love with Felicia the moment she slipped that dress over her head and gazed into the mirror. It was as if the actress had found the perfect costume. The dress transformed her instantly. And suddenly she saw herself as the person she could be. From that moment on she had strained and strived, and applied herself in every way to become a woman worthy of wearing that dress and to earn Felicia's respect. It had been grueling work, and to all outside appearances it had paid off. Yet, too often, Ann would awaken in the middle of the
night with a question rolling around in her mind—was she merely an actress performing a role or had all that effort and Felicia's steady hand actually resulted in a true transformation?

How had Felicia understood that Ann was no longer a child, that she had ceased being a child when the unimaginable had happened, forcing her to flee Newark? Instead of dressing her in flounces and pink, Felicia had nudged her into becoming a woman to be reckoned with. But that night, the night of the party, even Felicia had been powerless to curb Patrick's jealous tongue.

“Look, it's Lady Ann,” he'd hissed in her ear when she'd arrived at the bottom of the stairs. “Come to steal the silver.”

The look on Patrick's face, the smell of his sour breath, had been so ugly, that after a few minutes of forced gaiety, with face flushed, stomach churning, she had literally run up the stairs to be sick. No one could have possibly suspected the reason behind her retreat. But just as she arrived at the bathroom door, Jonathan stepped out. Ann had practically crashed into him in her frenzied rush to get inside. He hadn't moved fast enough and, face to face, she had spewed all over him.

Ann jerked herself back to the present. She wasn't sixteen anymore. She was thirty-three.

“I don't like the name,” she said flatly and suddenly. “Felicia wants to call her Baby Talk N Glow. It sounds seventies to me. Too pedestrian. But I guess we'll just have to hope that she's unique enough to overcome the shaky moniker.”

Jonathan's eyes narrowed as he realized that she was talking about the doll. “Go on.”

“I've run the numbers in every imaginable way, starting with sales of a million pieces and regressing down to five hundred thousand.” Her breath felt short. She didn't want to believe it could come to that. “I think I've accounted for every possible contingency.”

“To protect your own salary, I'm sure.”

She felt it as a slap in the face but chose to ignore the comment.
Her stomach twisted and she raised the glass of Scotch to her lips, then continued. “On the one hand, dolls are comparatively safe. They account for volume of over two billion dollars in the United States alone. On the other hand, we could still end up in trouble because of the enormous risk. One glitch with this product, one misstep with the marketing plan…”

“Then take a pass.”

His comment hardened her spine. “No. Felicia wants her. And there are eight or ten other companies who will snatch her up if we don't.”

He leaned back on his stool. “What's in it for you?”

Ann fought to breathe. She reached for her briefcase. “Your time's up, Jonathan. I've got better things to do with mine.”

“Just know, I'll be watching.”

“Spare yourself the trouble,” she said as she stepped down from the bar, lost her footing, and practically fell into his arms.

He went to steady her.

She pulled herself upright, turned abruptly and walked away. “Good night, Jonathan,” she called over her shoulder.

He watched her leave, thinking that she didn't move so much as cleave through space.