Magdalene (19 page)

Frustratingly, excruciatingly, wonderfully
so.

Jack, irritated that I now had a distraction
of the personal type, wanted to know who sent the flowers, who made
me smile over nothing, but I wouldn’t tell him.

I didn’t care if he blew his top.

I just wanted to keep it all to myself, this
sweet little thing we had.

“What
do
we have?”

“What’s that, Ms. St. James?”

Sheldon glanced from the road to the mirror
and back again.

“Nothing, Sheldon, thanks. Just talking to
myself.”

What we had
was
a seduction, a slower
one than I was used to, granted, but I knew what I wanted from
Mitch: a night or a week or a month in the sack. That would cure
me. He was a novelty, intriguing because I couldn’t have him the
only real way I wanted him.

Yet.

I knew his game. He did it with industry
leaders across the spectrum, coy, subtle, leaving them wanting,
then dropping them when it amused him while they never got what
they wanted at all but came crawling back to beg, unaware they’d
been played.

So why was I playing it? Why had I succumbed
to his spell like everyone else?

He’d never been bested, and I was probably
one of the only people in the country who could do it because I had
clear and significant advantage no one else had.

The question was
why
he played such
games.

I didn’t know, but I intended to find
out.

I walked into my silent office, which would
be abuzz in about an hour, and flipped on the light to see the
barely-hanging-on orange roses (I still didn’t know what the fuck
was up with the orange) and the pathetic little basket on the ledge
in front of my window. The white bouquet in the cobalt vase still
graced my desk in a prominent place.

A tulip was soft as velvet under my
fingertips.

“Who is he? Or she?”

I looked to the door to see Jack leaning
against the jamb, his arms folded over his chest. He couldn’t
decide whether to be irritated or amused at me. I knew how it must
look to him: A forty-six-year-old woman smiling over flowers.

“That’s my business.”

“
Is
it business?”

I studied him, knowing which answer would
appease him, but it really didn’t matter. “No.”

“I’d rather it be.”

Of course he would. No attachments.

“Is this going somewhere? Seriously, Cassie.
I need to know if you’re gonna hang around for a while.”

“Jack,” I drawled, “there is no reason I
can’t do this job from wherever I am. I’m not here half the time
anyway.”

“I want my officers
here
,” he said.
“That’s part of the deal.”

“Fire me,” I snapped, planting my fist on my
hip. “If I’m not allowed to have a life at all, or if you’re going
to wait up for me to sneak in past my curfew, then I’ll just clear
out my office right now and go across the Street to set up shop
with Nigel. I’m not one of Jack Blackwood’s twenty-two-year-old
Baby Swinging Dicks.”

And that would be the end of that. I set my
own terms at Blackwood Securities because there was no one else
quite like me, and as Sebastian Taight’s acknowledged successor
with a history of success, I lent Jack inestimable cachet.

He said nothing as he turned and walked out
of my office, leaving me alone with my chaotic thoughts.

Was
it going somewhere? Really?

Or did I just think I could get it where I
wanted it to go?

Shit, he hadn’t even kissed me yet.

Something had to happen that would jar Mitch
enough to push this relationship somewhere other than this...sexual
stalemate. I knew what it was: I simply hadn’t tried hard enough to
seduce him.

I was enjoying the novelty of the foreplay
too much.

Tomorrow night.

Thus far, I had been rather circumspect in
my dress with him, to respect his beliefs, his unwillingness to be
caught out in sin. Tomorrow, no.

Something had to give.

* * * * *

Let Us Make Man in
Our Image

Mitch was perched on a high stool, bent over
a microscope, measuring the tensile strength of his alloy after the
last tweak of his formula. His lab assistant entered the
measurements into the computer as Mitch called them out, but he
already knew what the computer would spit back out at him.

He began to smile.

Perfect.

Or about as perfect as a man-made alloy
could get.

Lighter than aluminum and stronger than the
strongest titanium alloy. At least, this variation of it.

“What are you gonna call it?”

Cassandra.

“Perfection,” Mitch muttered at his head
chemist, who had sidled up to check Mitch’s data. “I don’t know
yet.”

“Kinda makes you feel like God, doesn’t
it?”

“Yup.” And it had from the first moment he’d
stepped into a lab.

And in the lab, he was just another
scientist pursuing a nebulous dream of perfection: one metal, all
applications.

It couldn’t happen, of course, so they
simply worked at strengthening existing alloys for existing and
future applications.

Except this one, a formula Mitch had been
working on since grad school. Being head of a company had gotten in
his way.

“Oh, before I forget. Darlene’s looking for
you.”

There went his day playing scientist at a
word from his executive assistant, who pretty much ran his work
life. He sighed.

“Hey, that’s what you get for being a
hotshot CEO. It’s your own damn fault.”

Mitch chuckled, landed a light punch on his
chemist’s arm, left the lab, and headed up the elevator—

—only to stop short in the reception area of
his office suite when he saw who awaited him.

“Dave.”

David Petersen, the stake president,
impeccably attired in a brown suit, turned with a smile that seemed
to Mitch to be a bit...strained.

“Hey, Mitch.”

“I...thought we got all our business taken
care of at last night’s meeting.”

“Oh, yeah. Yeah,” he said. “Just wanted to
chat a bit.”

“Dave,” Mitch said bluntly. “It’s Thursday.
I’m at work.” He gestured to his jeans and tee shirt. “You pulled
me out of my lab for a
chat
? That’s what email is for.”

“Mitch.”

Out of respect, he said nothing more and
swept open his office door in invitation. “Anything to drink?”

“No thanks.”

Mitch gestured for Dave to have a seat in
one of the club chairs in the sitting area away from Mitch’s desk,
while he went to his wet bar, fully stocked with nothing alcoholic
and pulled out a Coke from the mini fridge. He headed across the
room and dropped onto the sofa, then propped his feet up on the
coffee table.

“What’s up?”

Dave scratched his jaw and said, “Mitch, you
know I don’t like to meddle in the way my bishops run their wards.
I mean—” He gestured around Mitch’s massive office, expensively and
tastefully decorated and furnished. “I figure you know what you’re
doing.”

“Yup.” He took a drink and waited.

“But I gotta ask you: Why in the world did
you release Greg from the Young Men’s presidency? He did a great
job.”

Of course, Mitch had prepared for the
question and gave the standard answer: “Inspiration, Dave. I prayed
about it and there you go.”

President Petersen’s mouth tightened as if
he didn’t believe the answer. It wasn’t a lie, but the entire truth
wouldn’t go over well.

And there wasn’t much Petersen could say to
counter that. “Well, um... Do you have any idea
why
?”

Oh, boy. Mitch still hadn’t figured out how
to worm his way out of that question and had hoped it wouldn’t be
asked at all. “I got the impression Greg needed a break and
somebody else needed the challenge of the position.” That, too, was
true.

Petersen thought on that a minute, then took
a deep breath. “Is there some bad blood between you and Greg? It
feels like a vendetta on your part, but for what I don’t know, and
I’ve never known you to be vindictive.”

Mitch played dumb. “That’s weird, since I
did call him to that position in the first place and he’s been
there four years. That’s a long time. Why is this even an
issue?”

Dave pursed his lips, and nodded slowly as
the sense of it sank in. “Yeah, you know, you’re right.” Mitch
almost breathed a sigh of relief. “I think Greg’s just feeling a
bit useless right now. Unsettled. Have you thought of something
else he could do?”

“Nope.”

Mitch knew what would happen: Petersen would
take pity on Greg and call him to the stake high council. It was a
fairly prestigious calling, but it would keep Greg traveling around
to the different wards in the stake, limiting his ability to stir
up trouble in Mitch’s ward.

Another battle won.

It didn’t make him feel any less tense.

“Is that it?”

“Um...just one...little thing. I even
hesitate to bring it up.”

“Hit me.”

“Have
you...been...
encouraging
...Sally Bevan’s interest in you in
any way?”

Mitch’s nostrils flared. “Absolutely not. I
won’t even call her by her first name.”

“I would understand if you, maybe, had said
things you didn’t mean to say that she took the wrong way. You’re a
widower and maybe that—”

“President,” Mitch said, putting his feet on
the floor and sitting up. He braced his elbows on his knees and
looked up at his ecclesiastical boss. “
Why
am I still a
bishop?” he asked earnestly. “I’m in year seven and yes, I’m a
widower. I have to meet with women and counsel them and provide for
them. I’m not just some random single guy in the ward. I’m wealthy
and relatively young. No matter how appropriate I am, no matter
what chaperones I have around, I’m a target and it’s very
uncomfortable for me. Can you imagine Romney or Huntsman being
widowed bishops?”

Petersen blinked. He clearly hadn’t thought
about it from Mitch’s point of view.

“That’s how it is for me, except I’m not
running for President and I’m not even close to that good-looking.
I have done everything I can to discourage her. If you want to know
about Sally and Sally’s issues with me, go talk to her
husband.”

“Dan’s word isn’t the best in the world,
Mitch, all things considered. And your friends aren’t the Church’s
favorites,
especially
Knox Hilliard.”

Mitch stared at Petersen, knowing he was
trapped: Trapped between his widowerhood, a woman with an
obsession, an ally with little credibility, a milieu with no
credibility at all, and a sociopath with an ax to grind.

“You know what?” Mitch said wearily.
“Release me from the bishopric. It’s been seven years.
This
time
. I’m single. Clearly you don’t believe me or trust
me—”

“Mitch—”

“It would solve everybody’s problems.”

“I...can’t,” he said softly.

Shocked, Mitch realized that that hadn’t
been part of Petersen’s agenda for this meeting. “Why not?”

“I’ve prayed about it and...I’ve felt
impressed that I shouldn’t.”

“Definitely or just kind of a vague
feeling?”

“As in, a big flashing neon ‘NO’ in my
head.”

Mitch stared at him, his mouth hard. “Then
you’re just going to have to trust me, aren’t you?”

Petersen gulped. “Yeah,” he murmured, and
Mitch knew he was trying to figure out how to make this palatable
to Greg. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

* * * * *

Cell Block
Tango

January 14, 2011

The bouquet of lavender, purple, mauve, hot
pink, and white roses, tulips, and lilies that sat in the middle of
my desk Friday morning had no iPod buried in it. Just a card.

8:00
Swishy skirt and high heels
MLK Mon. Long weekend?

“That’s a pretty vase,” Susan said, picking
it up to study it. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Neither had I. Plain and flaring out from
the base, it looked almost like matte stainless steel that flashed
pink-purple iridescence, almost holographic. It was heavy and well
balanced.

She held it up and looked at the bottom.
“MH?”

“Let me see.” Indeed, Mitch’s initials were
etched in the base, in his hand.

I shooed Susan away and when the door had
closed, I picked up the phone.

“Did you make this?”

“Yes,” he said immediately. “Do you like
it?”

“It’s
lovely
.”

“Mmmm,” he said, as if from far away. I
heard what sounded like pen scratches. Then, survey-like, he asked,
“What do you like about it?”

I told him my impressions and, after
studying it for a moment, added a few other details while he took
notes.

“Would you buy that in, say, Bergdorf?”

“Oh, sure.”

“How much would you pay for it?”

“Four, five thousand dollars. Maybe
more.”

“Okay.”

“Embed diamonds in the base. Other jewels.
Not too many. Make the jeweled ones limited. Signed and numbered.
Design some other things, though. Brand yourself, MH,
something.”

“Working on it.”

“Oh? Spill.”

“Hollander Home. Tentatively. Anything
else?”

“Not right now. I may think of something
later. I like the sheen. Matches the flowers.”

“The sheen changes depending on the color
that’s next to it.”

“Is it stainless?”

“No. It’s an alloy I’ve been developing
since forever. Sebastian saw the color properties in it and decided
he could do something with it. This is part of the flagship Ford
collection.”

“So you want to capitalize on his
fascination with your metal, put him to work, then establish your
brand on the back of his name as an artist.”

“Exactly. You were my test market.”

“You are a remarkable man,
Doctor
Hollander.”