The Doll Brokers (6 page)

He hung up midway through her answering growl.

T
he following morning, Jonathan was already in the lobby waiting for Ann when she arrived downstairs.

“If you slept more often, you might not need this,” she said, taking the cup of coffee out of his hands and drinking deeply. “Is there any way I can talk you out of going with me?”

“Why would you want to?”

“Out of respect for Felicia. I wouldn't want to bore one of her offspring to death.”

“Good try. Let's go.”

He started for the door. Ann drained the coffee and left the mug on the concierge desk. When she got outside, he had a cab waiting.

It was a ten minute ride to the studio. When they got out of the car, Jonathan reached into his pocket and counted out the correct change.

“You know, this really is ridiculous,” Ann muttered.

He answered without looking at her. “So you've said at least six times in the last twenty-four hours. Now, would you move aside so I can pay the guy?”

“That's what I meant. There's no reason you should pay for this out of your own pocket. The company will cover our expenses.”

He passed the money to the cabbie. When he turned back to her, they were standing too close.

“Ann, I can afford it.” He caught her chin in his hand. “You went after the wrong brother.”

How could it happen like this? she wondered. One moment they were civil, then everything flared. Ann dropped her briefcase to wrap both hands around his wrist. They stood that way, locked in place, both of them suddenly angry, both unwilling to back off.

“Stop this,” she hissed. “Leave him alone, damn it.
Leave Mattie out of this!”

“Want me to promise the way you did?”

“What on earth is the matter with you?”

“Maybe I've finally decided to get to the bottom of everything, once and for all.”

Ann moved one hand to swat at his. But something was jumping in her stomach. “Knock it off.”

Jonathan released his hold on her. She breathed in deeply once, twice, trying to get her equilibrium back. Then she bent to snag her briefcase again and headed into the studio.

The building was a converted warehouse. As she signed in with the uniformed guard, she became aware of the musty odor of the place. She glanced at Jonathan, waiting for some comment about cutting corners. She decided not to give him the opportunity and moved forward, up a winding corridor.

It ended at the entrance to a cavernous loft. By the time she reached it, he was behind her again, too close.

“You've used these people before?” he asked as they pushed through a solid metal door.

There it was, Ann thought, the jab. Or at least the prelude to one. “Once or twice.”

“And?”

“I was satisfied,” she said shortly, and she blushed.

Rattled her again, Jonathan thought. He wanted to wonder about that, but his attention was caught by the set. It was a child's bedroom: a dresser, cupboard, school desk, storage chest. The pinks were vivid, the whites pristine. People swarmed. A man in his mid-forties spotted Ann and pushed out of the crowd. He had spare blond hair and a nose that looked as though it had been punched more than once. Jonathan couldn't get a good read of his eyes through the lenses of his glasses.

“Ann.” The guy caught her hand—affectionately, Jonathan thought. The once or twice she'd worked with him had apparently been memorable occasions.

She was wearing that smile again, Jonathan decided, the one that could cut glass. She took her hand back. “Guy Brewer, Jonathan Morhardt,” she said, making the introductions.

“Morhardt?” Brewer repeated.

“Felicia's son,” Jonathan said. “The other one.”

“I didn't know there were two.”

“We were able to keep it a secret until just recently,” Ann said.

Brewer laughed. “Well, I'm the producer. Good to meet you.”

“Likewise. Who's this?” Jonathan put his hand on Ann's shoulder and moved her slightly aside. He felt her twitch at the contact.

The girl who stood behind her was all of seven, Jonathan thought, but she would grow into a woman who would make a man go willingly to his knees. She was blond, with dimples and blue eyes. She was extraordinary and, Jonathan knew in the next moment, she'd been trained to use her looks.

“Hello.” She offered her hand perfectly. “My name is Lisette Smile.”

Jonathan hunkered down to her level. “And a beautiful smile you have, too.”

“Thank you.” She kept forcing it.

“Go on now,” Brewer said to her. “Make-up needs you.”

The girl went back to the set, tossing a coquettish grin over her shoulder—flirting with him, Jonathan realized. He stood. “Where'd you find her?”

Ann rubbed the back of her neck as though it hurt. “Three hundred photographs. We picked forty, auditioned them, narrowed it to five, then gave them camera tests.”

“You did all this in less than a week?”

“I started the search before I actually contracted for the doll.”

“Malice aforethought. You knew you would sign the deal.”

She met his gaze. “Yes.”

“Well, what if you hadn't?” he hissed the question at her. “And all these expenses were for naught?”

“That wasn't an alternative, Jonathan,” she countered softly.

He watched her move off and wondered about a woman to whom failure was not an option.

Brewer began talking effusively to Jonathan, gesturing at the set before them. “We did all this in the last twenty-four hours, from the wood floor up. It'll take us all day to capture one hour of thirty-five millimeter film. From that, we'll get a thirty-second commercial.”

Jonathan scanned the set. To his unpracticed eye, it all seemed professional enough. But Ann had said flat-out that she was taking the cheaper route here. Why? Was she pocketing the difference? That was beneath her, he decided. Too crass.

He watched her stop and lean against a wall to watch the proceedings. Another man—the director, Jonathan assumed—called for quiet. The grip started the dolly moving along the guide rail at a deliberate speed, carrying the camera and the cameraman toward the action.

Lisette touched a hand to the doll's heart and gave the camera a look of bemusement. Jonathan was impressed. The director called for the scene to be shot again.

And again.

Every time it happened, the girl's look of surprise became more wooden. Jonathan could tell that the poor kid was melting. Someone mercifully called for a break and a sandwich cart was rolled out. Jonathan moved over to Ann who seemed preoccupied with her briefcase. “What's that?” he asked, looking over her shoulder.

“It's nothing.” She slammed the lid, nearly taking off his fingers as he reached for it.

“It's one of those kids games, isn't it? The electronic kind that we don't sell? And if I hadn't come along, you'd be sitting here, playing with it?” It jived with nothing he knew of her.

“I'm not going to dignify that with a response.”

He dropped it because he thought of something else. “Are we paying this idiot by the hour?” he asked.

“Which idiot?” She shook the bottle of Maalox she had removed from her briefcase, held it up, peered into it, shook it again.

“The one in the dark shirt who seems to be running this show.”

“Oh. That idiot. Gene Sullivan. He's a genius, actually.” Ann found the tablets she was looking for and palmed a handful. She popped them into her mouth as if they were candy and began chewing.

She closed her eyes briefly and rubbed her waist. She was letting him get to her. And for the life of her, she didn't know why. Patrick's barbs usually made her laugh, roll her eyes, dig in. But this was different. She had a very strong urge to take Jonathan by the throat and strangle him.

Ann looked at Lisette. The child was sitting off in a far corner by herself while everyone else ate. Her eyes were too bright. “Oh, shit.” She left him and went to the girl.

“Hey, there,” she said, kneeling in front of her. “What's wrong?”

“I want my mom.”

Ann looked over her shoulder for the woman, and found her bearing down on them.

“Mommy, I
did
it!” Lisette cried as the woman approached. “I tried!”

“You didn't listen to anything that man said! You just took it in your own head to do it your way!” She raised a hand as though to slap the child.

Ann panicked. “Hold on here!”

“Who are you?” the woman demanded.

They were fighting words. Ann stood to confront her. “I'm the woman who hired your daughter.”

“Oh.” She went flame red. And, like flames, the color crept up from her neck into her cheeks, part anger and part embarrassment. “Well, you talk to her then. Make her see sense.”

Lisette wailed as her mother wheeled around and left them.

“Easy does it, chicklet.” Ann got down to the child's level again. “Let's talk.”

You're hot, baby
. Ann tensed, her smallest muscles reacting to the remembered voice inside her head. Her blood started humming. She hadn't heard that voice since she was fourteen years old. But sometimes it still came to life. In her dreams, mainly. Or when little girls cried.

Ann took a breath. “They're outside you, Lisette. Your mom, Mr. Sullivan, all of them. They're not here.” She touched a palm to her own chest. “Just pull back into that place inside yourself and everything will be fine. Do you get what I'm saying?”

“I have a place like that,” the girl whispered.

“I know you do. We all do. Go inside there and talk to the doll for yourself, okay? Do it for the girl in that special spot. No one will yell at you anymore, not while I'm here.”

“Are you important?”

I'm just another little blond girl, Ann thought. She stood and turned away to look for Gene Sullivan. She plowed straight into Jonathan's chest. “Not a word,” she snapped, jumping back when they made contact.

“I was just going to ask if everything is okay.”

“Right as rain. Leave me alone.” She stepped past him and he let her go.

She was halfway across the set, looking for the director, when she saw one of the guards making a lumbering beeline toward her. He was overweight and his face was florid from the rising warmth in the building. “Ms. Lesage?” he asked.

“That's me.”

“I have an urgent message for you to call Mr. Morhardt.”

Involuntarily, her neck snapped around and her gaze went to Jonathan. He had Lisette on her feet now and was laughing with her. Patrick, Ann thought dazedly. The guard was referring to Patrick, not Jonathan.

She had turned her cell phone off earlier so as not to disturb the filming. Ann headed for her briefcase.

She removed her phone and tapped in the number of the office. Patrick took the call in record time. Generally he played games with her, pretending he was too important, too busy to jump when she tried to contact him.

“What is it?” she demanded.

“Stop the shoot.”

She was shocked into laughing aloud. “Have you lost your mind?”

“I'm telling you to cut our losses, Ann. As soon as possible. Our bank turned us down and I can't find another one.”

V
erna Sallinger raised her hand and felt it hover an inch from Patrick's closed office door. If anyone turned into the corridor, they would assume she was knocking. But it was late and she didn't expect to see anyone. She turned her head to the side and leaned close, listening.

He'd been at her desk when Ann had returned his call. He'd gone back to his own office to take it, moving like a kid who was hurrying to the bathroom. The fact that he wouldn't talk to Ann in front of her, hurt Verna in a spot that was already raw from his other casual insults.

Patrick opened the door suddenly. Verna took a quick step back to save herself from stumbling inside. “You startled me!”

He scowled at her, then looked up and down the hall. “What are you doing out here?”

Verna decided not to answer him. She slid one shoulder between him and the door jamb, moved past, then turned.

The whites of his eyes were threaded with red. The skin beneath them was puffy.

Verna took a breath. “What's wrong, Pat? Talk to me.” This time, she thought, he would tell her. He would confide in her and let her into his life.

Patrick laughed hoarsely. “Besides the obvious?”

The only obvious thing she knew was that three banks had turned him down on a doll project he wasn't keen on anyway. “Besides that.” Verna touched his midriff and slowly slid her hands up. She used her fingers to knead the tension from his shoulders.

He closed his eyes. “That feels good.”

“I know.”

She waited but he didn't volunteer anything more. Verna took her hands away and his eyes flew open. She glanced at her watch.

“I thought you might need a sounding board, but I guess not. I'm heading off.”

Verna made a move toward the door and caught a glimmer of her reflection in the glass of the framed print beside it. She considered herself attractive, weight held in check, curves in all the right places. Then why this penchant for falling for the wrong guy? Ever since she'd moved to Manhattan from upstate New York. Not that there had been many, but invariably the men she became involved with were either single and jerks, or married.

If at times she found Patrick's touch unpleasant, then Verna simply reminded herself of how much better he was than other men she had known. He had his faults, of course. There was no denying that. Yet, she would give anything to hear him say that he truly cared about her.

“Wait,” Patrick said when she reached the door. “Is everyone gone?”

She kept her hand on the knob and nodded.