Fortune (28 page)

O
ver the next two weeks, Skye's nightmare, like her headaches, became chronic. If not for them, those two weeks would have been perfect. As it was, they were incredible. Magical.

Thanks to Griffen. He had taken her to the theater, to jazz clubs, to restaurants so fancy she couldn't even pronounce most of the dishes on the menu. Night after night, they had talked until the wee hours, sharing their lives, their hopes and dreams for the future.

With each passing day, Skye had become more convinced that he was her every dream of a perfect man coming true. How many times had she wished for a man who would love her so much, so completely, he would be able to see no one and nothing but her? How many times had she dreamed of a desperate, passionate, perfect love, a love that transcended the mundane of the here and now?

That's the way Griffen said he loved her.

Said?

Skye dropped her sketching pencil and brought the heels of her hands to her eyes, tired from the long day. She wanted to trust him. She wanted to believe in him, in his words of love. But something held her back. She didn't know what it was. Maybe it was just that it was too soon, that they were going too fast.

Maybe she feared, deep down, that he would change his mind, realize he was mistaken, that he didn't love her. And then he would leave her behind.

And she would be destroyed.

Skye sighed. What did he have to do to prove his devotion? He said all the right things, all the things she had waited a lifetime to hear. He did the things a man in love should, looking at her and treating her as if she were the only woman on earth. What was wrong with her? Why couldn't she trust him?

She turned her gaze to the window and the approaching dusk. She rubbed her temple. It was almost as if Griffen had crawled inside her head and learned her deepest secrets, her innermost fears and longings.

How did he know her so well?

Soul mates. Is that what they were?

Griffen thought so. He believed there was one ideal person for everyone, one ideal mate, a mate chosen from beyond this world, before birth. Griffen believed that's what they were: soul mates. He had told her so.

Was Griffen why she was here in Chicago, now? Was this, was he, what her whole life had been leading to?

Skye turned her gaze back to her desk in time to see Martin, one of the other artists, walk past her office door, leaving for the day. As he did, he sent a venomous glance her way.

She sighed. She and Martin had not hit it off, and the other artists had welcomed her with varying degrees of warmth. For some reason, although she had only been on board two weeks, word had started circulating that she was Dorothy's favorite. That she was the one Dorothy would hand over the creative reins to, when she retired.

It was ludicrous, really. She had only been a part of the Monarch's family for two weeks. Handing over control to her would be fantastically unrealistic, as well as unbusinesslike. And neither Dorothy nor Griffen could be called either of those things.

As for being Dorothy's favorite, she didn't know about that. Dorothy had taken her under her wing, personally showing her the ins and outs of the design department. And she did feel that she and Dorothy were in sync creatively and that the woman liked her a lot.

But that did not make her next in line for the throne.

Nor did her romance with Griffen, word of which had spread like wildfire through the department. Skye didn't doubt that little tidbit had cost her even more points with the other artists.

Knowing that worrying about her relationship with her colleagues wouldn't accomplish anything, Skye turned her attention to the sketches she had been working on. She tilted her head to the side, studying them.

Her first research-and-development-team meeting had been a disaster. Beforehand, she had decided to keep her comments low-key, her opinions—for the most part—to herself. But when she had seen some of the team's ideas, her plans to ingratiate herself with silence had gone down the tubes. She had been extremely vocal, opinionated and critical. So much for winning friends and influencing people.

But the proposed designs had been worse than pedestrian, they had been deadly dull, uninspired. She had said so.

And earned Dorothy's approval and her fellow artists' dislike and, she suspected, their terminal resentment.

But she hadn't been able to contain her excitement any more than she had been able to hold her tongue. She had jumped in with both feet, making suggestions, changes, additions.

Dorothy had been delighted with her ideas. A couple of the artists had been inspired by her enthusiasm and had rushed forward with her. Thank God. Doing this job without any allies at all would have been nearly impossible.

“Hey there.”

Skye looked up. Terri, one of the designers who had accepted her, stood in her office doorway.

Skye smiled. “Hi. I was just thinking about you.”

“You were? What's up?”

Skye spun her drawing pad around. “What do you think?”

Terri crossed the office, her expression hesitant. Skye held her breath as the woman gazed at her sketches, at this point little more than a combination of bold lines and angles.

“I thought I'd call the series City Lights,” she said.

When Terri still remained quiet, Skye quickly filled the silence, self-conscious. “So far I'm just playing with line and angle, trying to capture the movement, energy and landscape of a city. It's got a long way to go, I know, but—”

“No, I like this direction. I like it a lot.” Terri tilted her head. “What are you thinking about in terms of materials?”

“A combination of white and yellow gold, some surfaces textured, some polished to a high shine. I see fiery gemstones. Emeralds, rubies. Yellow topaz.”

Terri perched on the edge of the desk, obviously warming to the idea. “We could create a signature piece for different cities. Chicago, of course. London, New York, San Francisco. Each could capture the essence of that particular city.”

“I like that.”

Terri tapped one of the sketches. “It would be great for a holiday line. The perfect gift for the woman who has everything.”

They were silent a moment, both caught up in their own thoughts. Terri broke the silence first, clearing her throat. “I have some ideas. Mind if I put them to paper? It'll still be your baby.”

“I'd love that. We're a team, after all.”

“Good.” Terri smiled. “This is going to be fun.”

The receptionist stuck her head into the office. “There you are, Terri. Call for you, line one. It's Will. He says it's important.”

Terri frowned. “Thanks.” She turned to Skye. “Can I use your phone?”

“It's all yours.” Skye stood. “I'll just go get a cup of coffee.”

Terri waved her back to her seat even as she greeted the person on the other end of the line. Although Skye tried not to eavesdrop, it was impossible not to notice the anger and bitterness in Terri's voice as she spoke to the person on the other end of the phone.

Within moments of picking up, she dropped the receiver back into its cradle. “Perfect,” she muttered. “Just perfect.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

Terri met her eyes, then looked quickly away. Skye saw that the other woman's eyes sparkled with tears. “I wish there was. Will's my husband. My soon-to-be ex-husband, actually. He's such a creep.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Me, too.” She looked away, then back. “I might as well tell you, everybody in the department knows. I caught him screwing around on me. Turns out it was far from an isolated incident, if that makes any difference. My life's been a nightmare ever since.”

Skye didn't know what to say, so she said nothing.

Terri laughed, though the sound was choked. “It wouldn't be so bad if it weren't for Raye. That's our four-year-old daughter. She misses her daddy. She wants to know why I won't let him come home.” Terri twisted her fingers together. “I don't know why, the bastard wasn't home that much as it was. He didn't have the time. He was too busy with his girlfriends.”

“Does he want to come back?”

“Yeah, he does.” She lowered her eyes to her lap. “But I can't let him come home, not after what he's done.” She searched Skye's gaze, looking, Skye knew, for understanding, for approval. “Forget trust and respect. Forget breaking my heart…what about AIDS?” She brought the heels of her hands to her eyes. “I went and got tested. I had to, just in case.”

“Oh, Terri. How awful.”

“I feel like I'm living every woman's worst nightmare…one minute in a supposedly trusting, monogamous relationship, the next I'm having to deal with a broken heart and an AIDS test. It was negative, thank God, but I have to go back in six months.

“How can I let him come back?” She looked at Skye again. “Am I wrong? Am I being selfish?”

“You're the only one who can make that decision, Terri. But I'll tell you this, you don't deserve to be treated like that.”

The other woman gazed at her a moment, then smiled. “Thank you. I appreciate your saying that.”

Skye returned her smile. “You're welcome.”

“Want to see a picture of my little girl?”

“I'd love to.”

Terri wore a locket around her neck with Raye's picture in it. She opened the silver heart and leaned across the desk so Skye could see the photo. Her daughter was adorable. Skye told her so.

“She is, isn't she?” Terri gazed at the photograph a moment, then snapped the locket shut. “Speaking of, I need to take off. That's why shithead called. He said something had come up and he couldn't get Raye at the baby-sitter's. More like
someone
came up, no doubt.” She crossed to the door and looked back at Skye. “I'll see you tomorrow?”

“You bet. Terri?” The woman stopped at the door and looked back at her. “Thanks. For being so nice to me. You're definitely in the minority around here.”

Terri hesitated a moment, then smiled. “You're easy to be nice to. Besides, you were right. Those other designs sucked.”

T
he house was magnificent. The kind of house people only dreamed of living in. A house listed on the national register of historic places, one on the Chicago Architectural Society's tour, three stories of brick, limestone and Italian Renaissance ornamentation.

Skye gazed up at it, heart thundering. “Do real people actually live here?”

Griffen laughed and draped an arm across her shoulders. “I take it you like the place?”

“It's like a castle. The kind of place a princess would live.”

“A princess,” he murmured, sweeping his fingers rhythmically back and forth across her upper arm. “I like that. Although I always just thought of it as home.”

Home.
She shivered. She didn't think she could ever call this place home. It was too grand, too cold. She didn't know why, but for all its size, she had the sense it would press in on her, smothering her.

“Come on. I've told Granddad so much about you, he's anxious to finally meet you.”

She hung back. “Do we have to do this?”

He looked at her, surprised. “What do you mean, do we have to do this? Granddad's expecting us for dinner. Dorothy's coming, too.”

“I know. I—” She passed a hand across her forehead. “I…I feel so strange suddenly. Dizzy and a little…queasy.”

“Just nerves.” Griffen bent and kissed her. “I promise you that's all it is. Come on.”

He propelled her up the walk. Lit from within, the double, beveled glass front doors sparkled like a wall of diamonds.

Skye counted each step. The closer to the house she got, the more her unease grew. With each step, the greater her urge to run.

“Relax.” Griffen squeezed her hand. “Granddad won't bite. You'll see.”

True to Griffen's promise, Adam Monarch did not bite. Instead, he greeted her with a big, warm hug. As though she was a long lost member of the family, or someone he had been waiting a lifetime to meet.

“My, you're pretty,” he said, looking her over, beaming.

She flushed under his scrutiny. “Thank you.”

“Isn't she a prize, Granddad?”

“That she is. Beautiful. Talented and smart, too, I hear.” Adam Monarch and Griffen exchanged glances. “She's so perfect, one might almost think she's a Monarch.”

“She will be, if I have my way.” Griffen caught her hand and laced their fingers. “It was love at first sight, and I don't intend to let her get away.”

Skye squirmed, uncomfortable, embarrassed and pleased all at the same time.

“It's about damn time.” Adam chuckled and met her eyes. “He's a catch, lassie, but slippery. Hold on tight, I don't want him slipping off the hook.”

Griffen snorted with amusement. “No chance of that, Granddad. She couldn't get rid of me if she tried.”

Skye looked from one man to the other, warmed by their relaxed and affectionate relationship. For a moment, she let herself bask in the fantasy that she was one of them, one of their charmed circle. Theirs was the kind of family she had always dreamed of being a part of. Affectionate. Close-knit. United.

What would it have been like to grow up here, in this mansion, with the Monarchs' sense of history and community, with their roots, the kind that were so rare these days?

She swept her gaze from Griffen to his grandfather, smiling to herself. It would have been nice, she decided. It would have been very nice.

As if reading her mind, Adam met her eyes once more. “We're a temperamental lot, I know. Demanding. Critical. Overzealous. But, we're fiercely loyal to our own. Once you're one of us, you'll know you're part of a family. We'll never turn our back on you.”

The front bell pealed. “There's Dorothy,” Adam said. “Get our girl a drink, Griffen. I have a good cabernet open on the sideboard. I need a moment alone with my sister.”

Griffen nodded and led Skye to the dining room. The table, which could have easily accommodated forty, was set on one end with china, silver and flickering candles.

“It's beautiful.”

“Thank you.” They crossed to the sideboard and Griffen poured them both a glass of the wine. He handed one to Skye. “There was a time when the house was always filled with guests, the table set to capacity, night after night.”

She brought the glass to her lips, sipped and made a sound of appreciation. “What changed?”

“The times. Mother got ill. Our family shrank.” He shrugged. “The table will be filled again. Everything moves in cycles.”

Skye indicated a large oil painting above the sideboard. “Who's this? She looks like Dorothy.”

“Anna Monarch. The talent who started it all.”

“And the man with her? Is that her husband?”

Griffen moved to stand behind and rested his chin on the top of her head. “No. That's Marcus. Her brother. Together they started Monarch's.” She felt his smile. “With her artistic gift and his business savvy, they were quite a pair.”

“As Dorothy and Adam have been.”

“Yes. And after them, Marcus's children, Rita and Jonathan. Unfortunately, the brother-and-sister teams ended with my father. He was an only child, and I—”

He bit back the words and she twisted around to meet his eyes. “You never had any siblings?”

He drew a careful breath, his expression sad. “I had two sisters. They both died…young.”

“I'm sorry.”

“So are we.” He smiled, though the curving of his lips looked forced to Skye. “I guess those are the breaks.”

She touched his cheek. “That doesn't make it any less painful.”

“No, it doesn't.” He closed his fingers over hers. “Come, I want to show you something quite extraordinary. But first, close your eyes.”

She did as he asked, though she felt more than a little silly doing it. Taking her hand, he led her across the room. “Okay,” he said, “you can open them.”

She did. And caught her breath at what she saw. She stood in front of a lighted display cabinet, its glass shelves lined with Fabergé-style jeweled eggs of various size and decoration.

“My God,” she murmured, stunned, completely taken with the creations. Peter Carl Fabergé's Imperial Easter eggs, created for the Russian royal family, were some of her favorite objets d'art of all time. She had always been drawn to them, even as a child. When she'd gone to college, she had done a paper on them, traveling all the way to New Orleans to see a special exhibit at the museum there.

Skye tilted her head. These were every bit as opulent as those, but they were more contemporary in design, incorporating a modern sensibility in their use of shapes, colors and materials.

“I know they're not Fabergé,” she murmured, “but who?”

“Monarch.” He opened the case and carefully took one of the eggs off its pedestal and handed it to her. “Monarch artisans created an egg to celebrate the birth of every new Monarch. You're holding my egg.”

“Incredible.” The egg was a deep, opalescent blue enamel, studded with even deeper blue sapphires and wrapped with white gold wire.

“They all open. Look.”

Griffen unlatched the top, and in the way of a jack-in-the-box, a jester popped out. Only this jester had jeweled butterfly wings. Skye made a sound of surprise. And pleasure.

The little creature was at once ugly and beautiful, evil and angelic. And accordingly, she found herself both repelled and drawn to it. She tapped the figure and he bounced, the light catching and reflecting off his jeweled wings.

“Strange, isn't it?” Griffen laughed. “Dorothy was feeling particularly creative that year. He bent so their heads were together. “I used to think,” he murmured, “that the eggs contained the souls of all the Monarch children. I wondered what would happen if I dropped and broke one of them. I wondered if the children would escape…or die.”

Skye met his eyes, chilled. She could imagine Griffen as a young boy, gazing at the eggs and thinking of children's souls trapped inside. She shivered. “That must have been frightening for you.”

“Frightening,” he repeated, drawing his eyebrows together in thought. “I don't know about that. It was…it just was.”

She returned her gaze to the eggs, unsettled. “Some are so much more elaborately decorated than others,” she said. “It looks almost intentional, as if there was a sort of pattern at work.”

Griffen took the egg from her hands and set it back on its pedestal. “It's quite simple, actually. The birth of a girl child was more highly celebrated. The artist's job was to create an egg befitting the occasion.”

He said it so matter-of-factly, as if she should understand without asking, that she laughed. “You're joking, right?”

“Not at all. Why would you think that?”

“It's just…unusual, that's all. The whole notion of putting more value on one sex than another is foreign to me, but to value girls over boys? That's even odder. In some parts of the world, they don't even want their girls. They throw them away.”

“Well, we want ours,” Griffen said softly. “The Monarch girls are our treasures. They're the ones who possess the gift.”

Gooseflesh raced up Skye's arms. “The gift?”

“You look almost frightened.” He trailed a finger along the curve of her jaw. “All I'm saying is, the creative geniuses in our family have always been girls. That's all I meant. First there was Anna. Then Rita. Now Dorothy.”

“But one of the boys could someday have the gift,” she said, turning back to the display cabinet. “It just hasn't happened yet.”

“Of course.” He rested his chin on the top of her head, his hands on her shoulders. “We haven't always been a happy family, Skye. We've had our share, more than our share, of tragedy. But we've stuck together through it all. And we've never forgotten what's important. It's made us closer, stronger.”

He was talking about his sisters, she knew. And his beloved mother, who had died when he was young. Too young, she thought.

She turned in his arms. He needed her. This family needed her. Resting her hands lightly on his chest, she lifted her gaze to his. She could help heal him. She could help heal them all. They needed love, and she was so hungry to love someone she was safe with. Someone who needed and wanted her.

“I think you're an amazing man, Griffen Monarch.”

His lips lifted. “Do you?”

“Yes.” She slid her hands up to his shoulders. “I really do.”

He bent his head close to hers. “Does this mean I have a chance with you?”

“Yes,” she whispered, lifting her face to his. “Definitely, yes.”

With a sound of triumph, he kissed her.

His lips were cool against hers, his technique expert. Skye pressed closer, wishing for a little heat, a little fire. Wishing she would melt at his touch. She scolded herself for her thoughts. Some fires took time to build into a roaring blaze, and that was okay. Not okay, she corrected. It was better. Much better.

Flash fires burned out quickly. They were hard to control, they did a lot of damage. No, a slow, steady building of heat was the way to go. Besides, his touch felt good. It felt nice, comforting and sure.

Behind them, Adam cleared his throat.

Griffen laughed softly against her mouth. “Busted,” he murmured.

Skye wriggled out of his arms and, red-faced, turned to find Adam and Dorothy, standing not three feet from them, beaming with pleasure.

“Don't let us interrupt you,” Dorothy said airily. “It's about time the boy brought someone home to meet the family. I was beginning to think he never would.”

“I was waiting for the perfect woman, Aunt Dorothy.”

“And now he's found her,” Adam said. “And we're all delighted.”

“Delighted,” Dorothy repeated, crossing to Skye, hands out. “Hello, dear.” She kissed both Skye's cheeks. “How wonderful to have you here with us. Have you seen the house?”

“I thought I'd take her on a tour after dinner,” Griffen said.

“Good idea.” They began taking their seats at the table. “Be sure to show her the nursery.” She looked Skye straight in the eyes, hers amused. “It's quite special.”

“Really?” Skye glanced at Griffen. “How so?”

A glance passed between the two men. Griffen smiled easily. “It has a magnificent stained-glass window. Floor-to-ceiling.”

“An angel,” Dorothy said. “To watch over all the Monarch children. It was designed by a well-known Chicago glass artist. Frank Dewitt. Have you heard of him?”

Skye shook her head. “No, I'm afraid I—”

“The nursery's been closed awhile,” Adam interrupted. “It'll be awfully stuffy. And dusty. I hate to have Skye around all that—”

“Nonsense,” Dorothy said, smiling as the housekeeper brought in the first course. “I'm sure Skye won't be bothered by a little dust. She's a studio artist, after all.”