The Doll Brokers (9 page)

“May I do so?”

“Oh, Felicia…”

“Well, then. That's enough of that.” The woman's voice went abruptly brusque. “What about the golf tournament?”

The Toy Industry Association sponsored it once a year. It was a horrible time to be away from the office, but the proceeds went to quality charities. Ann took a quick mouthful of Scotch. “I can't do it this year. I'll be somewhere in Paris by tee time.” This was edging near shaky territory. Patrick would be the obvious choice to send in her stead, but she could not,
would
not, remind Felicia that the man wasn't likely to stay sober long enough to do any good.

“What about Jonathan?” Ann heard herself ask. The tempo of her pulse quickened and she sat up straighter on the sofa. There was a thought. It would keep him from following her to Europe.

“He's a worse golfer than you are,” Felicia said. Then, after a pause, she added, “You've been spending some time with him lately.”

That woman didn't miss a trick. “He seems interested in the doll.”

“That's odd.”

Ann tried to think of something to say, then she got a reprieve.

“Ah, there's the door. Dr. Everham is here.”

“Francesca will get it. Don't push yourself.”

“I will answer my own door for my guest, and I will be on my feet when I do so.”

Ann suppressed a shudder. “All right, then,” she said. “You take care.” She half stood before she dropped down again, laughing hoarsely. The irony of it was that Felicia, with her cancer-wasted body, would enjoy a touch tonight, a caress, a warm smile. Yet she, in her prime at thirty-three, was alone.

“Bed,” she said aloud. She'd skip dinner, along with the basement gym, though she'd planned one last visit before her trip tomorrow. She was just getting into the Steve Jobs biography
autobiography. Ann decided that she'd snuggle down with the former-CEO of Apple and a nightcap.

She got to her feet and strode into the single bedroom. It was the one room she
had
finished. When she had first bought the co-op, she had intended to do the whole apartment in layers of ivory, eggshell, and pear. She'd stopped herself because she didn't like what that said about her psyche. But her bedroom … this was white. It was where she needed the white in her life to be. Bedspread to bureau to makeup table. The only real color was in the paintings—a triptych inlaid in the wall opposite the window and a huge Picasso copy opposite her bed.

Ann unbuttoned her blouse and shrugged out of it. She yanked back the pristine eiderdown comforter, whaling her fist into all the stark, crisp pillows that were more than any one woman would ever need. Then she swore. “Damn him. Damn him all to hell.”

She'd get it out of the way now, she decided.

She couldn't find her personal address book since it was not resting in the usual place—the kitchen junk drawer—so she grabbed her BlackBerry out of her briefcase and scrolled for his number.

A woman answered.

“Jonathan,” Ann said. The single word squeezed through her clenched teeth.

“May I tell him who's calling?”

“No, you may not. He probably won't come to the phone if you do.”

There was a beat of silence, then the woman's voice echoed back as she seemed to tuck the phone aside and speak away from it.

Ann thought she heard sheets rustle. He was in bed at a quarter past eight on a weekday night? The son of a bitch was having sex.

“What do you want, Ann?” he asked, his voice coming into the phone.

“How did you know it was me?”

“Most of my acquaintances have some semblance of phone etiquette.”

“Then it's time you moved down in the world.”

His chuckle was dark and somehow warm, but she wasn't sure if it was meant for her or his companion. As she sat alone on her iron bed big enough for two, Ann thought she despised him more at that moment than ever before. She sucked in breath. “You're going to do it again, aren't you?”

“Do what?”

“Appear at the airport tomorrow like … like some kind of ghost rattling chains.”

“I never got into Dickens.”

“Because you were too busy slapping around purple and black paint. Dickens has a lot going for him.”

“Why are we talking about this?”

Because when it came to Jonathan, she had a strong stake in being combative. “I'm just calling to ascertain if I should hold a seat for you on the plane.”

He let out a sigh. Maybe the woman was touching him.

“What?” Ann said. “What did you say?”

“I'll pick you up at 1:30. We might as well ride to the airport together.”

Ann disconnected without answering.

He was going to Europe with her, then. She'd known it. It was going to be a very long week.

M
ark Twekesborough met them at Heathrow as dawn peaked over London's horizon. He was a rawboned man with a ruddy complexion, dark eyes, and a steady gaze. His sandy hair tended to be perpetually shaggy. Twekesborough owned one of the larger distributorships in the U.K., handed down to him by his father.

Ann had first met him at the Toy Fair in New York years ago. She'd been young, excited, bug-eyed at the commotion. Mark, a few years older, attending with his father, had pretended to be jaded. They'd hit it off immediately, and Ann had enjoyed a heart-tickling week of good food and interesting conversation—most of it revolving around the industry she was soaking up.

She smiled inwardly at the memory as he dragged her into his arms, hugged and kissed her. “Good to see you again, kiddo,” he said.

Her last business trip had been five months ago. Over the years she had progressed through the company ranks, and she and Felicia had spent time traveling together, not only across North America, but to the Far East and here to Europe as well. All for business, with few if any moments allowed for personal relaxation.

‘How is the old girl?” Mark asked reading her mind.

“She's sick,” Jonathan said shortly.

Ann's gaze shot his way. Damn it, that information was for Felicia to disclose.

Jonathan's expression was deliberately bland. She took a steadying breath and glanced back at Twekesborough. “Forgive him,” she said. “He doesn't travel well. Felicia is a little under the weather.”

“I'm sorry to hear that. Nothing serious, I hope.”

“We're all hoping.” She left it at that and turned a palm in Jonathan's direction. “Allow me to introduce my cranky traveling companion.”

“Actually, I believe we met years ago. You were still in knickers at the time.” Twekesborough held a hand in Jonathan's direction.

“And you were trying to figure out how to shave.” Jonathan shook his hand hard and fast.

Mark shrugged off his comment. “Shall we go?”

Ann nodded and began moving up the concourse. “It's incredibly thoughtful of you to meet us at such an hour.”

“Why wouldn't I, for an old and dear friend?”

He fell into step beside her. Jonathan was behind them. Ann refused to look back.

Twekesborough dropped them at the Berkshire in the Baywater district. While the valet wrestled with their luggage, Ann leaned down to look back into the car at Mark. “Two o'clock, then?” Their meeting had been scheduled to allow her to catch some sleep first.

“I'll have you picked up.”

“Thanks.” Twekesborough pulled away from the curb and she entered the hotel. Jonathan was already at the registration desk. She stepped up next to him. “Would you like to explain the cause of your sudden, despicable mood?”

“No. He's got us sharing a room.”

“What?”
Ann felt her heart knock.

“Your friend reserved us a suite.”

“I don't give a damn if it's a villa on the Med! Change it.”

“I'm too tired.” He took the key.

“How can you be tired? You were in bed by 8:30 last night.”

“Ah, but I wasn't sleeping.”

Ann felt her hand curl into a fist. She relaxed it deliberately.

“Maybe he figures we need to be in close proximity to plot our strategy,” Jonathan said, turning away from the desk.

“Like you could.”

“Now, now. Try to be nice.”

Ann headed for the elevator. A suite meant that there would be at least one door she could close on him.

They went upstairs to find tea waiting for them. Ann took in her surroundings. Typical for London, there was not a generous amount of space. Even the windows were on the smallish side, partially hidden by half-open velour drapes which had gone out of style in North America years ago. Mauve wallpaper with a butterfly pattern covering most of the walls. A twin, gaudy blue couch sat facing an antique wood cabinet that contained the mini-bar and television. The bedrooms were located on either side; the washroom closest to the entranceway.

The lack of privacy made Ann shiver. How did she feel about being so close to Jonathan? Part of her was intrigued, but the other part wanted to put up as many barriers as possible.

The bellboy asked if he could order them breakfast. Ann told him they'd wait and sent him on his way.

When she turned from the door, Jonathan stood in the middle of the room, arms loose at his sides, working up a scowl. “What did you just do?” he demanded.

“What do you mean,” she said, “I tipped him.”

“No, damn it, before that. You sent him away … and I'm hungry.”

She went to the tea service, turned her back on him, and deliberately poured only one cup of the steaming brew. “Jonathan, please try and control yourself. This is going to be unpleasant
enough without your vile mood. Don't worry, you'll be home with what's-her-name in a week.”

“With who?”

“With whoever you weren't sleeping with last night.”

“Carmen,” he said, following her to the tea table.

“I wasn't fishing for a name.”

“Why would you?”

“That's my point. I wasn't.”

He picked up a scone, chewed, and grimaced. “This is disgusting.”

She clapped her hands over her ears. “Enough! If I'm stuck with you in this room, the least you can do is be civil.”

“It's not my fault you're stuck with me. Take it up with Mark. By the way, I thought the English were supposed to be reticent. Stuffy. My God, I thought he was going to swallow you whole when he hugged you.”

Ann picked up a scone and chewed with sharp, strong bites. “I'm eminently huggable.”

Jonathan nearly choked. “Like a porcupine.”

“Screw you.” She picked up her cup again and carried it to the door of the bedroom closest to her. “I'm going to take a nap. I'm exhausted.”

“It's barely eleven our time.”

“I'm used to turning in early. And when I go to bed, I sleep.”

“Stop. You're going to break Twekesborough's heart.”

Her heels nearly skidded beneath her as she broke stride and turned back to him. Then the air went out of her. “Please, let's not fight.”

Jonathan wasn't sure exactly what was behind his bad temper. He only knew that something in his chest was knocking like a broken piston in an old sports car. Twekesborough had seriously gotten his dander up. “Could be a week is the maximum exposure to each other we can stand.”

She lowered herself into a chair and looked at him, then quickly turned away. For a fleeting moment she imagined that she and Jonathan were not adversaries but lovers. And the room transformed in her mind's eye. What was gaudy was attractive, what was small was now quaint. And she wished with all her heart that she could live this dream one day, of having someone she could fully trust, someone she could be honest with, confide in. Of course, it could never be Jonathan. But the experience of sharing space with him, seeing her reaction to having him in such close proximity, told her that it might finally be time to allow a man into her life.

Ann blushed at the thought, immediately forced her mind to clear. “Something occurred to me while you were sleeping on the plane,” she said.

“I wasn't sleeping because you wouldn't let me.” His arm was probably going to bruise from the grip she'd laid on him when they'd hit turbulence.

“You were snoring.”

“I don't snore. And what were you thinking about on the plane while I wasn't sleeping? Giving up on this doll business?”

“I can't do that. You know I can't.”

There was something in her voice that made him pause. “What, then?”

“We have one thing in common, Jonathan, and
only
one thing. That's Felicia.”

He found he had absolutely no argument with that, though he would have liked to have found one. “Okay.”

“We should be working together to give her what she wants before she … well, before. If you continue to divert my attention with this petty behavior, I could make some crucial mistake that could unhinge everything.”

“If this is your way of asking me to leave, don't bother. I'm not going to let you run around unchecked.”

Ann sat back and closed her eyes. “I'm not asking you to leave. Follow me around if that's what you feel you have to do. But you've got to let me focus on the business at hand. For your mother's sake. We're the only two people who seem to really take her into consideration.”

Jonathan found himself almost believing her, or was it that he
wanted
to believe her? He didn't respond and instead moved toward the far bedroom.

“We're on the same side here,” she called after him.

He paused in the doorway and looked back. She was sprawled in the chair with her long legs stretched out, one ankle hooked over the other. She looked mussed, tired, vulnerable. Her skin was parchment, but just underneath her eyes was a bruised look. He thought again of that behemoth of a Brit crushing her in his arms.