Friends and Lovers Trilogy 03 - Seduced (34 page)

The associate sidled over to the phone and placed a call.

Afia tucked silky strands of poker-straight hair behind her diamond-studded ears and willed her pulse steady.
I haven’t done anything wrong.

Casting her a sidelong glance, the associate mumbled a cryptic “uh-huh” and “I see,” and then hung up. He returned and passed Afia her American Express. “Declined.”

Bernard’s
four other patrons—plump-lipped, tight-skinned women who looked as though they frequented the same plastic surgeon—conversed in hushed tones. Afia hated being the center of gossip. Mortified, she leaned over the counter and crooked a finger at—she glanced at his nametag—“Douglas. There must be something wrong with your credit card device.”

“Our Zon is functioning properly. I’m afraid it’s your credit that’s in question. Perhaps you’d like to write a check.”

“I don’t have my checkbook.” Mr. Glick oversaw her bank account and paid her bills. She’d been relying on cash and her Visa for months. She’d yet to have a problem. Until now. “Please try again.” Panic fluttered in her chest as she re-offered Douglas her Glick-approved Visa. Those strapless, wedge-heeled Chanels sat on the counter waiting to be bagged. The perfect mates to the silk shantung dress she’d just purchased at Saks.

Two minutes later, Douglas re-shelved the wedge-heeled Chanels. On the verge of hyperventilating, Afia fled
Bernard’s.
The shoe fiasco had dashed the last of her tremulous composure as she navigated the bustling city sidewalk. She’d survived two high profile weddings and three funerals in seven years. Not to mention the unflattering media surrounding her bizarre personal dramas. Being labeled “The Black Widow” by an unfeeling gossip columnist had been the cruelest blow. Anyone who knew her, knew the insinuation was absurd. Still, her second husband’s sudden death had earned her a fair share of suspicious double takes. Her small circle of friends had dwindled to one. She’d managed to cope and found shopping a temporary cure-all for her ever-increasing bouts of depression. But surely,
surely
she hadn’t shopped herself into the poorhouse. Each of her husbands had left her a fortune.

Her mind racing with one horrible possibility, she quickened her spike-heeled steps and avoided walking under a workman’s ladder only to step on a crack in the pavement. Out of habit she clutched her left wrist and stroked the charm bracelet her dad had given her to counteract ill luck. That’s when she felt it. The gap. She quickly fingered the charms, ticking them off in her mind—horseshoe, wishbone, four-leaf clover—stumbling twice in her haste to make it to the car. The third time she went down. Face down on the crowded sidewalks of Fifth Avenue.

Rudy came to her rescue. The muscle-bound chauffeur whisked her up and carried her to his double-parked limousine. “Animal,” he said of a snickering passerby and then opened the door and helped her into the back seat.

“I’m all right,” she said.

“You’re crying,” Rudy said. “And you’ve got a run in your hose.”

Afia glanced at her left shin and cried harder. “Darn!”

“I knew this wasn’t a good idea. I should’ve taken you shopping somewhere cheerful and sunny. Like Miami.” Rudy slammed her door, took his place behind the wheel, and revved the engine. “What happened in there?”

“They declined me.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”
Sniffle.
“I just want to go home.” Again, she glanced at her charms. Twelve. She counted only twelve. There were supposed to be thirteen, unlucky thirteen acting as reversed bad luck. She was missing her gold moneybag marked with the dollar sign. The charm that represented “wealth.” She could have lost it in any one of several stores. Or on the street. Down a grate, in the gutter.
Gone
, her rational mind whispered. It was the only thing that kept her from going back and searching every square inch of Manhattan. This bracelet had been a gift from her dad, her champion, the good-humored buffer between her and her superstitious mother. Losing a charm was like losing a piece of her hero. It also smacked of a bad omen. Hands trembling, she pushed aside a day’s worth of shopping bags and searched her leather satchel for tissues and her cellular.

She punched in her business manager’s number while Rudy eased his way into the bumper-to-bumper traffic. “Be home, Mr. Glick. Please be home.”

Rrrring. Rrrring.
“I’m sorry. The number you have dialed has been disconnected. Please—”

She hung up and speed dialed his cell number.

Rrrring. Rrrring.
“I’m sorry. The number you have dialed—”

“Henry, how could you!” She strangled the phone wishing it were Henry Glick’s skinny, double-crossing neck, and then dropped the cell in her lap. Mental note: Strike Glick off of my Christmas list! Stroking her wounded bracelet, she glanced out the tinted side window, tears blurring her vision and distorting her view of Manhattan. In her hypersensitive state, the skyscrapers tilted, threatening to crumble and crush her. The relentless traffic melded, threatening to run her over. She missed her Dad. Randy, and Frank. The men in her life who made everything all right. She knew that made her unfashionably dependent. Yet how did one fight one’s nature? She’d been trying to cope, struggling to maintain proper grace. Losing that lucky charm, a charm she’d had since she was thirteen years old, had been the final straw. “I can’t breathe,” she squeaked, suddenly and horribly overwhelmed.

Rudy blared the limo’s horn, jerking the wheel left as a taxi veered too close. “Idiot.”

Afia sobbed into a handful of tissues.

“Not you, honey. The cabbie.” He edged over into the far lane behind an exhaust-belching bus. “What’s going on, Afia?”

She blew her nose and then glanced up, meeting Rudy’s concerned blue gaze in the rearview mirror. Dear, sweet Rudy. Her chauffeur. Her best friend. Her only link to sanity this past emotionally charged year. “I’m not sure.”

“Just remember, honey, everything happens for a reason. No matter how bad it seems, it could always be worse.”

Rudy had been spouting new-age assurances for three weeks now. Ever since he’d discovered the self-help section of
Amazon.com
. She wished he’d stop. The more he tried to lift her spirits, the more she drifted toward despair. Self-help suggested helping one’s self. Relying on one’s own judgment. Trusting one’s instincts. As her mother was fond of pointing out to Afia, following her instincts generally led her to disaster. Sick to her stomach, she picked up the phone and dialed her no-nonsense godfather.

He answered on the third ring. “Hello?”

“Harmon?”

“Afia? I’m in the middle of a golf game, Peanut. What is it?”

“Oh, Harmon.” She hiccupped twice before regaining control. “My credit cards. They … they …”

“What?”

“Mr. Glick. He … he …”

“What? What did Henry do? Where are you?”

“Manhattan. Oh, Harmon they … they …”

“They who? They what? Afia stop sobbing and tell me what’s going on.”

“They were so cute, the strapless Chanels, and I … I couldn’t buy them. I was …”
hiccup, sniffle,
“declined.”

Harmon groaned. “Go ahead,” he said to someone else. “I’ll meet you at the clubhouse. Afia.”

“What?”

“Where are you exactly?”

“In the limo.”

“With Rudy?”

She nodded.

“Peanut, I have the feeling you’re nodding. That doesn’t help.”

“Rudy’s driving,” she croaked.

“Put him on.”

She leaned forward, handed the phone to Rudy, and then rooted through her bag for more tissues.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Reece.” The metro bus stopped short. Rudy jammed on his brakes.

Afia flew forward, landing on the carpeted floor on all fours. “Darn!”

Rudy glanced over his big shoulder. “Are you hurt?”

She climbed back up into her seat and inspected her right knee. “Another run.”

He sighed and then focused back on the traffic. Putting the phone back to his ear, he answered, “She’s fine.” Again he glanced over his shoulder. “Mr. Reece said buckle up.”

She nodded and waved him off, contemplating her stockings. Ruined. Much like her life.

“To get home?” Rudy shrugged. “Two to three hours. I’m gridlocked. Yes, sir. As soon as possible.”

He passed the phone back to Afia. “Harmon?” She kicked off her three-hundred-dollar Prada pumps and peeled off her pricey sheer to waist hosiery. “Tell me I’m imagining the worst.”

“I have to make some calls. Did Rudy stock the mini-fridge?”

She pried open the door with her big toe. “Laurent Perrier ’76.”

“Drink up, Peanut. Kick back and don’t worry. Rudy will have you home in no time. I’ll meet you there.”

“You’re suggesting I tie one on at two in the afternoon, Harmon. That doesn’t coincide with
don’t worry.
”

“Then don’t think about it.”
Chirp.

Chirp.
She tossed the phone into her bag, cracked open the Laurent Perrier, and proceeded not to think about it.

For three hours and twenty-five minutes.

By the time they reached South Jersey, she was feeling no pain.

Rudy pulled into the circular drive of her second husband’s summer home. Odd, Frank had been gone for almost a year, and she still thought of the sprawling three-story stucco as his home. She’d never warmed to the ultra-modern design. In recent months she’d filled the stark, spacious rooms with nineteenth-century art and antique furniture. Anything old to offset the cold contemporary feel.

But for all the clutter the house remained hollow and lonely.

Like her.

She glared through the limo’s window at the offending architectural monstrosity, tensing when she saw Harmon waiting on the doorstep.

Rudy opened the car door. Refusing his help, she climbed out with four shopping bags looped over her toned, creamy arms, and, on shaky legs, wove her way to the polo-shirted lawyer’s side. “Give it to me straight, Harmie. I can take it.” She’d spent the last few hours bolstering herself with vintage champagne and Rudy’s guru advice. The more she drank, the more he sounded like the Dalai Lama. Who wouldn’t take heart under the Dalai Lama’s guidance?
Everything happens for a reason. No matter how bad it seems, it could always be worse.
“How much did Glick embezzle?”

Grim-faced, Harmon pulled her into his arms and whispered in her ear.

Rudy was wrong. It couldn’t be worse.

“I’ll fix this, Peanut.”

Afia dropped her bags and clutched her chest, her alcohol-induced bravado obliterated. “I’m
broke.
”

“Financially challenged,” Harmon countered. “A temporary inconvenience. Wait until your mother hears about this. Henry better pray that it’s me who tracks him down.”

“Mother’s somewhere in Tahiti,” she said, half dazed. “On her honeymoon. She left specific instructions not to be disturbed.” Weary of widowhood, Giselle had married Bartholomew Tate, a pompous bonbon baron who seemed intent on widening the already canyon-sized gap between mother and daughter. Could Harmon fix that, too?

“She’d want to know.”

“She’s already put out with me. Absolutely not.”

“All right then. You’ll stay with Viv and me while we figure this out.”

“Thank you, but no.” She turned her back on both men. Stepping onto the manicured lawn, she circled the rose bed in a liquor-fogged daze. “I’m poor.” She’d been born into money. Married money. Now she couldn’t afford a bubble bath let alone a day at the spa.

“You’re staying with me,” Harmon insisted.

She was tempted. Harmon would take care of her. Somehow, some way, he’d make everything all right. Rudy’s self-help preaching rang in her ears.
The sooner you stop looking to others to fix your problems, the sooner your problems will disappear.
“I couldn’t impose,” she heard herself saying.

“I’m your godfather.”

“I’m in between roommates,” Rudy said.

“You need someone to share the rent,” Afia said, still circling. “I can’t do that. I don’t have any money. Or credit.” She swept aside her blunt-cut bangs to massage a dull throb at the center of her forehead. “What about my charities?”

Harmon spread his hands wide. “If you’re that concerned—”

“Of course, I’m concerned!”

“You could donate your time instead of money,” Rudy suggested.

“She already donates her time,” Harmon said, clearly annoyed.

Intoxicated as she was, Afia knew what Rudy meant. Serving on a committee was all well and good but there were other ways to help. Still, the thought of not being able to make her usual monetary contributions made her nauseous. Thanks to Henry Glick she was not only unable to provide for others but she was also unable to provide for herself. “How am I going to pay off my shopping debts?” The furniture, the paintings, the
clothes.

Rudy shrugged. “You could get a job.”

Harmon snorted. “That’s just crazy.”

Afia frowned, rebellion rumbling in her belly. Or maybe it was the champagne. She threw back her shoulders and on second try successfully crossed her arms over her insignificant chest. “Why is that crazy?” She freed one hand and smacked Rudy’s impressive pecs. “That’s an excellent idea. I’ll get a job.” Definitely the champagne.

Harmon gawked. “You haven’t worked a day in your life. What would you do?”

Afia nudged Rudy, and together they collected her designer shopping bags. “I have skills,” she informed her godfather. “Now come inside and help me figure out what they are. You too, Rudy.”

“This could take all night,” the older man mumbled, reaching out to steady her as she staggered toward the mansion’s front door.

She shrugged off Harmon’s help along with the hurt of his lack of faith. Something had snapped inside of her on the tense ride home. She’d spent her entire life being sheltered and maneuvered. Being told that others knew what was best for her. She’d believed them, too. Right up until today. When a man she’d trusted implicitly because her mother had told her to, stole her every cent.

Her life was out of control because she had no control in her life. At least that’s what Rudy had said midway down the Garden State Parkway. “I’m going to track down Henry Glick and get my money back,” she declared as she struggled to punch the security code into the keypad. “Starting tomorrow I’m taking responsibility for my life.”