Best Laid Plans (7 page)

I dream of being chased by a pack of wolves that all look
like Jackson. That isn’t the disturbing part. In my dream, I’m waving my arms
so they can find me.

I awake with a start. I’ve overslept, so I don’t have time
for either a shower or a cup of coffee. The fridge is still dead, and I make a
mental note to call the super to get the status. I’ll have to do it later
because the cleaners arrive at nine, and I need to let them in. I grab a taxi
and barely make it in time.

I retrieve the work clothes I hid last night and stuff them
into my backpack. I check the refrigerator to see whether the caterers left any
food, but there’s only an opened bottle of water.

By noon, when the real estate agent arrives, all traces of
the previous evening have been scrubbed away. I hand over the keys and thank
her profusely for the rental.

“The pleasure is all mine. I’ve
been trying to move this property for months, and today someone wants to see it.
Someone with deep pockets.” She winks at me. “I don’t think it’s a coincidence.”

I don’t have to guess who the
mystery buyer is. The wink told me all I need to know. I thought he was interested
in me. I should know better. You don’t become a billionaire by romancing event
planners. You get inside information from them. It makes me a little mad.

I leave the church and head
for the neighborhood sandwich shop. The more I think about all his questions,
the angrier I get. I might have my mouth filter on, but my texting fingers are
itching.

“Texting U (even tho U read
ALL my txts). Hear ur getting n2 church biz.”

My phone rings. I don’t need
to guess who is calling. “How did you know about the church?”

Based on his tone, I’m glad I’m
out of his reach, and that makes me bold. “It must feel awful when people don’t
respect your privacy.”

“I’m waiting.”

“I just called my head of
technology and had him bug your phone.”

“Ms. Whitkins, you need
to tell me now or I’m going to get mad. Trust me, you don’t want to see me mad.”

“I’ve seen you mad, remember?”

“That was annoyed. This is
mad
!”
He’s shouting into the phone, and it sounds as if he’s right next to me. Suddenly
there’s an arm around my waist, and I’m thrown into the back of a limo.

I land a little less than
ladylike, and by the time I right myself (and my clothes), Jackson has climbed
in and shut his door. I try the handle on my side but it’s locked. The limo
moves and I spot Ron behind the wheel. I should kick and scream. I’m sure they assume
I’ll do that. I’ll try disarming them with calmness.

“Are you two expecting me to
hand over my phone, or are we going to wrestle for it?”

Jackson straightens his tie. “Business
first.”

The thought of wrestling
Jackson does have its appeal. As does kicking him in that special place I
learned in my self-defense class. This man certainly brings out conflicting
emotions in me.

He’s dressed for work on a Saturday
afternoon, and looks like sin in a suit. I guess when you’re a billionaire, you
never get any free time. I’m surprised he could fit a kidnapping into his busy
schedule.

“We’re going to need a little
privacy.” Jackson presses a button and a glass partition inside the driver seat
closes between us and Ron. While I’m admiring the technology, Jackson moves in
very close. His voice is soft, but there is no mistaking the tone. “Let me make
this perfectly clear. You are not getting out of this car until you tell me how
you knew about my offer.”

My heart races and my
breathing is shallow. I’m just not sure it’s because I’m frightened. I need
some distance. “You should put your seat belt on. We’re in a moving vehicle.”

“I would suggest being more
concerned with your safety than with mine.”

I’m tired of this man
threatening me. “I will tell you when you
stop monitoring my phone!
” This
kidnapping isn’t serendipity. I could be having lunch now if he wasn’t still
tracking me.

He grabs me by the shoulders
and moves in so close I can feel his breath on my face. “Why can’t you just
obey me?”

I shoot back, “And why can’t
you use the magic word?”

He looks puzzled. “Abracadabra?”

“
Please
. Please is the
magic word. Were you raised by wolves?” His face goes blank, and I can see his
emotional partition go up like the glass partition in the car. I instantly
regret it. I met his mother. She’s a sweet woman. It’s not her fault she gave
birth to the devil’s spawn.

“I was raised by the juvenile
detention system, as I’m sure you know,” he drones.

So that’s what Robert found
on the Internet. What I didn’t want him to tell me. Jackson’s face and posture
are such a mask now, I almost wish the dangerous side of him would come back. At
least he seemed alive.

I give him the only apology I
can manage, considering I’m still technically kidnapped. “I didn’t know.”

I get his lie detector glare,
and then he sighs. “I’m about to make a multi-million dollar purchase and this
deal has to be done in strict secrecy. I need to know how you discovered it.” There
is a pause. Before I can respond, he adds, “Please.”

He used the magic word. There
was no pleading in his voice, as I’m sure there never is. I would have preferred
he said it as if he meant it, but he made the effort.

“I just met the real estate
agent to give her the keys, and she said someone called her this morning to see
the place. I remembered all your questions last night, and put two and two
together.”

“You couldn’t just tell me
that on the phone?”

“I thought you asked those
questions last night because—” Don’t finish that sentence, Jillian. It will
only give him more ammunition against you. “I felt played. And then you were so
bossy on the phone.” It’s not much of an amends, but he did hijack me off the
street.

“And I didn’t use the magic
word.”

“That didn’t help.” Looking
back at my behavior, I’m embarrassed by how childish I acted. All of my
emotions seem to get amplified by this man. At least I’ve taught him to say “please.”
Maybe I can teach him “sorry,” too. That’s another word I’ve never heard out of
his lips.

I realize as much as I’d like
to take his inventory, I need to keep the focus on me. I take a deep breath and
try to sound civil. “Why are you interested in the church?”

“Condos. The reason the lot
hasn’t sold is that the church has landmark status. I can’t tear it down. But
it appears the parsonage isn’t restricted at all.”

The thought of Jackson owning
a church is so mind-boggling it makes me smile. Jackson mistakes my smile for
something else, and puts his hand on my thigh.

“And who knows, maybe I’ll
start my own religion. Would you like to join my flock?”

“I don’t think your ego needs
any more devoted worshippers.” I think of the little black dress. “But I do
like the habit.”

The car comes to a stop. Jackson
opens his door, steps out, and offers me his hand. I grab it and realize we are
at my apartment building.

“We’re not done here, Ms. Whitkins.
Dinner tonight. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

“What for? Are you thinking
of buying a restaurant, and need my opinion on that, too?”

“You and I have unfinished
business about last night.”

I’m about to ask for a little
more information, but he disappears back into the car and drives away. He just
assumes I’m free on a Saturday night? It makes me even madder that he’s right.

I take the long, slow ride in
the elevator, sending positive refrigerator energy to my kitchen. I’ve never
had any supernatural powers, so I’m not surprised when it’s still not working.

I go through the mail, pay
the bills (which I can afford to do now that his check has cleared) and grab a
load of clothes for the dry cleaner, with the little black dress on the top of
the pile.

I normally do my errands
during the week, so I’m not used to the longer lines on the weekend. It’s three
o’clock by the time I finish. I think about getting a sandwich, but if Jackson
is taking me to dinner in a few hours, I guess I can wait.

I decide to call my dad. I
look at the clock and do the calculation for the time difference. It’s only six
in Maryland.

“Hi, Dad.”

“Hi, honey. How are you? Any
earthquakes?”

Our conversations always go
about the same. He asks me about earthquakes; I ask him about the weather. Then
he tells me what he’s done, and I talk about what I’ve done. What I’ve done usually
takes more time.

“What do single women like
you do on a Saturday night?” His question surprises me. He’s never asked that
before.

“I’m going out to dinner
tonight.”

He’s on that like a
bloodhound. “With a man?”

“Yes. A client.” He might be
listening in right now, so I change the subject. “I’m not looking to date. I
don’t even know if I can afford to stay in the city, since I don’t have any
jobs lined up. I may have to come live with you, unless you’ve got a
girlfriend.”

“Well, I’m volunteering at
the senior center, so most of the women I meet are old enough to be my mother. There’s
always room for you here, honey. You know, I’m an odd duck, and I think you’re
the only person who could put up with me. Do you remember Mrs. Condon? She
lives two doors down. Her husband passed away a year ago. She’s been flirting
with me. But, you know, she drinks.”

The words hang in the air. We
both know what it’s like to be in a relationship with someone who drinks.

I try to lighten the mood. “How’s
the book coming?”

“Oh, I had the greatest
interview this week. I met a woman at the senior center whose father worked
there!” Dad is writing the definitive (and probably only) book on the Deluxe
Record Company—it started in 1920 and went bankrupt in 1931 during the Great Depression.
“She said she used to have a bunch of records, but tossed them when she had to
move into the center. It broke my heart.”

Ever since I can remember, my
dad has collected every record put out by the Deluxe Record Company. His grandfather
had been a recording engineer there, and had left him both his record collection,
and his house in Baltimore. Now that Dad’s retired, I’m starting to worry he
might be a little obsessive-compulsive about his hobby. I suspect he
volunteered to work with seniors to get access to their attics, looking for
records.

“Well, Dad, I always check thrift
shop for 78s.”

“Just remember, I still need the
elusive 44211.”

My dad has been searching for
Deluxe Record 44211 since I was a child. The 44000 series were their spoken
records. Deluxe would record performers touring the vaudeville theatres in
Baltimore. He has his grandfather’s log that shows the missing record number
was recorded in May of 1923 with the initials RV. That’s when Rudolph Valentino
was in Baltimore—and Dad thinks it’s a record of him. He’s come up with scenarios
worthy of a Dan Brown novel to explain its mysterious disappearance.

But I also know when he gives
me his shopping list, he’s ready to hang up.

“Well, I’ll let you go. Have
a good night, Dad. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

I put the phone down and look
around my apartment. I’m antsy, restless, and bored, and it’s not even 3:30. I
should probably clean my apartment and change the sheets. It has nothing to do
with seeing Jackson tonight. I’m just going to straighten up. I’m not going to
clean; I’m just going to straighten.

Two hours later, my apartment
is spotless. Purely unintentional. I just started with a light dusting, but was
horrified at how dirty the cloth was, so I got the Swiffer, and then the vacuum
and then I had to mop the kitchen and bathroom floors, and let scrubbing
bubbles take care of the tub (but I did squeegee the shower doors). I also
changed the sheets, and finally got around to tightening the screw on the toilet
seat.

I’ve been thinking of what to
text Jackson. When he says unfinished business, does he mean the bill, or what
was happening when we were alone? If we’re in a restaurant, he probably means
the bill. He doesn’t turn up the testosterone until he’s behind closed doors. I
want my text to sound casual, but I have to start setting boundaries.

“Running l8. What r we
meeting 4 2nite?”

His reply is quick and short.
“Business then pleasure.”

He needs to stop telling me,
and start asking me. I text, “May only stay 4 first. Hoping 2 get 2 bed early.”

When my phone rings two
seconds later, I debate answering. I can’t think of a good reason to avoid it,
so I take the call.

“I thought I’d phone, since
you’re running late. Talking is so much faster than typing. So, if I
understand, it’s business and then right to bed?”

I should know by now he’s
better at this than I am. “Where can I meet you?”

“I’m picking you up. Your
apartment is on the way to the restaurant.”