Heart Of Gold (2 page)

In the
midst of her all-nighters, when she got too tired to keep her eyes open, she would
go to sleep on a small bed which was pushed into a corner, an afterthought
concession to her body's need for rest. Other personal effects were also
footnotes. Hidden in an alcove, she had a closet full of khakis, a dresser full
of T-shirts and sweaters, and a little bathroom that had a shower stall and
sink, but no tub. There were no curtains on the windows and no rugs on the pine
floor.

For
Carter, the loft reflected her life's priorities. Work was first. Her personal
life, a distant second.

Walking
past her desk with a grim expression, she went to the dresser and pulled open a
drawer. Inside, she fished around the T-shirts until she found the black
leather box she was looking for.

Damn him
to hell, she thought, opening it.

Cosseted
in a satin bed was a weighty Colombian emerald, dangling from a chain of
diamonds. It was a ridiculous gift, one more of her father's attempts to buy
back her love. The box had arrived the week before, via Federal Express, on the
eve of her twenty-eighth birthday.

And now
Carter was stuck trying to unload her father's present. Again.

He always
sent her jewelry. For her twenty-seventh birthday, it had been a dauntingly
large pair of diamond and pearl earrings. She'd auctioned those off and given
the money to the local hospital. For her twenty-sixth, it had been a ring
sporting a ruby the size of a marble. She'd sold that one to a jeweler, and the
proceeds had helped the local elementary school set up a computer lab.

And now
this emerald.

Maybe the
town needed a new ambulance. Or two.

The gifts
were awful on her birthdays, but Christmas was worse. Her father sent her
watches. Each year. They were always expensive and gold, sometimes with
diamonds on the face, sometimes with other precious gems. She'd taken to
donating the money they brought to the local women's shelter.

Fingering
the emerald and watching light get trapped in its glorious facets, Carter
wondered where her father thought she'd wear such a necklace. When she'd left
his house that last time, she'd walked away from the lifestyle she'd grown up
with and he knew it. In one day, the day her mother died, she went from being a
social register sweetheart to an outcast of her own choosing. The
self-inflicted exile meant that gala parties were part of her past, just like
her father was, and she woke up every morning grateful for their absence.

Carter
ran a finger over the diamond chain, watching it sparkle.

In her
current life, she was more likely to need a pup tent than a palatial suite of
rooms, a can of bug spray instead of hairspray, a compass around her neck, not
an emerald. She relished her simple life. She was free to explore her passion
for history and she had a career where her contributions were respected. She
truly liked her life.

Most of
the time.

On
occasion, when things got quiet and her mind wandered, she did feel alone. She
had few friends. As for family, she was an only child and her closest cousin,
A.J., lived far away and had her own busy life in the equestrian world. Now,
she even had a husband.

Carter
wondered whether her own future would ever include a partner.

The
immediate answer was no. She worked every waking minute so there was no time to
date, although, if she was honest, she didn't think more free time would solve
the problem. She knew everyone at the university and there was no one who
really struck a chord inside of her. Besides, the ghost of her family's tragedy
trailed her wherever she went. With her father's betrayal always with her, she
was reminded constantly of how she couldn't trust men.

Not exactly
fertile ground to meet Mr. Right.

Carter
shut the box and crammed it back into her drawer. She had better things to do
with her time than focus on things she couldn't change.

For
someone who pursued the past as a profession, Carter was determined not to
dwell on her own. She lived in the present and tried not to think about
everything she'd walked away from. She was successful at it, too, except when
the gifts arrived on her doorstep. Twice a year, she was forced to confront the
shadows of her past, and she hated the disruption, resenting the hell out of
her father's dogged persistence. She wished he'd stop pretending they had
anything other than a biological link between them and was tempted to tell him
to stop sending her things.

Except
she couldn't bear the thought of speaking to him.

Carter
paused in the middle of her room, surveying the books and the slides, her
papers and her project logs. She reminded herself that she was on her own. She
was free.

And
whatever price she paid for not living a lie, it was worth it.

She
headed to her desk, intent on calling her frequent collaborator, Buddy Swift,
and telling him they had another job. Another dig gig, as he'd say. The two had
partnered on many projects, and his wife, Jo-Jo, and daughter, Ellie, frequently
joined them on the excursions. The Swifts, who lived in Cambridge, Massachusetts, were the closest thing to family Carter had nearby and the reason she didn't
eat TV dinners alone on holidays.

She
didn't make it to the phone. She got derailed when she caught sight of her
reflection in the bathroom mirror. The woman staring back at her had long,
glossy black hair, ice-blue eyes, and fair skin that was showing a faint
sunburn.

Carter
glared at herself. Since the horrible day of her mother's death, every time she
looked in a mirror, she saw her father staring back at her. They had the same
coloring, same bone structure, identical teeth, for Chrissakes.

On a
daily basis, Carter could forget about how the man's selfishness and infidelity
had destroyed their family. She could pretend she was an orphan in the world,
untethered to the events that still woke her up at night in a cold sweat.
Except for when the dreaded FedEx man came twice a year, she was mostly able to
get past it ail.

But
mirrors remained a constant problem, even in her own house. She hadn't wanted
any under her roof, but the contractors had installed them in the bathrooms
before she could express the preference.

As she
turned away, she wondered how much it would cost to rip the things off the walls.

* * *

Nick
Farrell slowly lowered the legal document he'd been reviewing. He was beyond
frustrated. Full-blown irritated was more like it. “Cort, we've been
through this before.”

But
Cortland Farrell Greene, his sixteen-year-old nephew and adopted son, was determined
to fight. The kid leaned forward and planted his hands on Nick's desk, exuding
angry heat. The fact that the kid's hair had been teased so it stood straight
up in spikes seemed fitting. “We haven't been through anything. You
may have decided something but there was no we involved.”

Nick took
a deep breath. When that didn't help, he tried taking another. “I'm not
going to let you go on a six-week, cross-country driving trip with the Canton brothers. They're in college—”

“Which
means they're responsible.”

“Doing
Jaegermeister shots until someone passes out on one of their father's lawn
sculptures is not being responsible.”

Nick's
level stare was met head on. “It only happened once! And that doesn't mean
they're bad guys.”

“How
about the time they decided to express themselves feloniously by stealing a
car?”

His
nephew looked away.

“Getting
in touch with one's inner burglar isn’t a virtue,” Nick said dryly.
“It's a crime.”

Cort
straightened and folded his arms over his chest. He looked as if he was searching
for another attack approach.

Nick
waited and wasn't surprised when his nephew's eyes snapped back to his.

“You
think you can lay down any rule just because my mother ...” But the kid
couldn't finish. He stumbled into silence, leaving the past dangling between
them.

“Because
your mother put me in charge of your welfare?”

“Because
I was willed to you like a piece of property. She stiffed us both if you ask
me.”

Nick
raked a hand through his dark hair. “Don't say that.”

“Why
not? It's true. You got stuck with me like I got stuck with you.”

“I'm
not stuck with you. You're family, which means come hell or high water, we're
in this together.”

“Oh,
come on!” Cort threw a hostile gesture at the desk. "Those papers are
your family. You're into your companies and your deals. The only time we
talk is when you're telling me I can't do something. We only spend time
together when you're taking me to some doctor.

“Why
don't we just bag this whole happy, family thing? It's not like you need my
trust fund. It's couch change to you. You could send me away—”

“I don't
shirk my responsibilities.“ ”Maybe you should try it sometime."
Nick started massaging his temples, feeling as if the skin across his forehead
had been pulled tight.

When Cort
had first come to live with him five years ago, after his parents were killed
in a plane crash, it had been eerie being around the boy. He looked so much
like the sister Nick had loved. He had Melina's flashing eyes and keen
intelligence, and seeing the boy's face had been an exercise in torment and
regret. It was a vivid reminder that Nick had never taken enough time to let
his sister know how much she meant to him. He'd vowed the same thing wasn't
going to happen with her son but things were not working out as well as he'd
hoped.

There had
been grieving in the beginning on both sides, something Nick had no idea how to
get over himself much less help the boy through. After the pain had become less
acute, the daily grind of running a multitude of companies and investments
worked against them. Nick's far-flung business interests kept him on his jet
and in his boardroom a lot of the time. Trying to balance the demands of his
work and Cort's needs was a drain like nothing Nick had ever experienced
before.

He was
also flying blind when it came to parenting. His own mother and father had been
dead for years and the people he dealt with were versed in the S&P 500 and
the Dow, not in what to do when you had a ten-year-old bawling his eyes out
because he'd lost his mom and dad.

Nick had
tried to research his way out of their estrangement. He'd read books, called
psychiatrists, even gone to a therapist. He was desperate for some kind of
index or graph which would show how to manage the parent and child relationship
but he never found one. There was no quantitative chart to tell someone when to
be strong, when to let go. When to let a child learn on his own and when he
needed protection.

The kid's
illness was another complication. The limitations juvenile diabetes placed on
Cort's activities were at the root of many of their disagreements. Lately, the
fighting seemed incessant but Nick was determined to not give up trying to
reach out. Aside from taking the responsibility his sister had given him
seriously, he viewed Cort as his one chance to be a father. Nick doubted he'd
ever marry. Women had a habit of seeing a bottomless wallet when they looked at
him and he wasn't inclined to make some socialite's dream of the high life come
true.

He
focused on his nephew. He didn't know what to do with the kid but couldn't
imagine his life without him. “I'm sorry. I just can't let you
go.”

Cort
didn't miss a beat. “Then I want to spend the summer hiking in the Appalachians.”

Swallowing
a curse, Nick did his best to not let his frustration explode. “You know I
can't let you do that either.”

“Why?”
Cort's voice got louder.

“You
know why.”

“I'm
not an invalid!”

“It's
too much for you.”

The kid
started shaking with rage. “How will I know if I don't try? How will I
know what I can do if you keep me locked up? I'm going to go bat-shit if I get
stuck here for three months!”

Nick
decided to let the curse slide. He had to pick his battles. “You're not
going to go insane and you know you shouldn't be taking those kinds of
chances.”

“You
never let me do anything! You get to travel around the world—”

“This
is not up for negotiation,” Nick cut him off grimly,

“But
the doctor said—”

“No.”

Cort
glared at him and rubbed his hair, breaking down some of the spikes. When Nick
just stared back, the kid eventually gave in with a resentment that was
palpable.

“Fine,
have it your way,” he muttered. “I'll just stay up here alone and rot
all summer while everyone else gets to have a life.”

“You
won't be alone.”

“I
won't?” There was a wealth of suspicion in Cort's voice.

“I've
decided to work from up here this summer, instead of the city.”

Nick
smiled wryly at the kid's expression. It was priceless, like someone had
dropped a frying pan on his foot. “But you can't, you've got businesses
and—”

"Ever
hear of videoconferencing and fax machines?

It's
amazing what technology can bring to a person's life."

“This
is going to suck!”

“Your
life's intolerable if you're here alone and it's intolerable if you're
not?”

“I'd
rather be alone than with you!”

Cort
bolted from the room, slamming the door so hard its mahogany panels wobbled.

Nick
shook his head, feeling ancient. He had done end runs on some of the most
ruthless men on Wall Street, had dreamed up financial transactions that
revolutionized mergers and acquisitions practice, had been an advisor to presidents,
for God's sakes.

But ten
minutes in an enclosed space with Cort and he felt like he didn't know his ass
from his elbow.