Perfect Timing (26 page)

Now, sitting on the edge of the Royal Beverly Crowne’s California king, Aidan knew that any shred of serenity was decidedly gone. It was time to deal. He heard Anne’s voice. She was there, sounding lawyerly, like she had a plan. He considered his circumstance. Maybe her presence was necessary. Of course, Kai also had a point, the media frenzy surely playing into her decision to rush to his side. He could hardly blame her. As Aidan finished buttoning his shirt, he stopped listening, stopped thinking about last night. It wasn’t the point. It didn’t matter. He headed into the bathroom.

Standing in front of the sink, Aidan brushed his teeth and splashed icy water on his face. He rarely made eye contact with the mirror. He could shave with the skill of a blind man. For the past seven years it was the way he’d completed those tasks—avoiding what was irrevocably bound to him. Admittedly, it was the same way he’d gone about his life. Today he took a deep breath and forced himself to look. There was the expected flutter in his gut. He allowed himself to feel it, the predatory reptile meeting his gaze. He stared, head-on, facing all the things that were never going away. From there he patted the last drops of water dry. He was ready, prepared to make peace with a coiled snake and everything connected to it.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Providence, Rhode Island

G
ETTING
IN
TOUCH
PROVED
TO
BE
A
TAD
MORE DIFFICULT THAN IT WAS IN CATSWALLOW
. Back then, Isabel might have left a message scraped through mud on Aidan’s windshield:
Farmhouse, later
. He was there every time. But they weren’t kids anymore, and this was grown-up business. Determined to go forward with that approach, she filed Tanya’s absurd theory where it belonged, under
Hopeless Romantic
. The only mission here was to contact Aidan Royce, rock icon, and see if he’d consider helping out an old friend. Given that context, it seemed plausible. They might have been married for five minutes, but they were friends for years, and she thought Aidan would honor that.

In that effort, Isabel considered serious ideas and fanciful ones, everything from hard-core publicists and management companies to Aidan Royce’s official Facebook fan page. All of it led to a dead end. Reluctantly, she narrowed her scope and moved on to plan B: Stella Roycroft. A perusal through Catswallow information turned up nothing. It wasn’t surprising. No matter the depth of Aidan’s flaws, she was certain he’d secured his mother’s future. Eventually, the Boca connection occurred to her. Isabel guessed that Stella might have viewed the Florida locale as her last chance to be with John Roycroft, even if it was his final resting place. Dialing information, she was amazed to find Stella listed. From there a computer prompt took charge, a crackle of nerves overtaking Isabel who yelled,
“Wait,”
into the phone. Technology didn’t respond to hesitation, though an answering machine did. Curiously, anxiety abated the moment she heard Stella’s voice. It was the same infectious drawl she remembered, more genuine than most. The message was identical to the one she used to get at their trailer:
“This is Stella, I’m not home, leave a message.”
Aidan would always tell her not to say,
“I’m not home
,” that it was dangerous. She’d laugh, telling him it was okay if people thought she was out living it up. She couldn’t remember how to record a new one anyway. Isabel left a simple message explaining that it was her, and she was trying to get in touch. It was important. Could Aidan call back? She’d hung up, uncertain if it was the most natural thing she’d ever done or the most insane.

The latter thought seemed like fair reasoning, especially after the day led to an out-of-sync evening with Nate. With so much in motion, he made the drive to Providence. Over dinner, they talked about Grassroots Kids and the radio station crisis, though Isabel didn’t mention how or why Aidan Royce might be a viable solution to either. She decided it would be wiser to explain after speaking with Stella, after there was something meaningful to say. Instead, she padded conversation with questions about his day and asking if he’d given any more thought to a fall trip to Maine. Afterward, Nate said goodnight at her apartment door. That was when culpability kicked in, Isabel darting after him. “Nate, wait!” He turned back, a step closer to his car than her. “I’m so sorry! We never talked about . . . I haven’t answered your question.”

“What question?”

“Your question,” she said, grasping his arm, “about coming to live with you in Boston.”

“Oh, that question,” he said, playing dumb to her clumsy behavior.

“That’s if you still want to share living space with somebody so self-centered and dense.”

He hesitated, looking her over. “Well, you have a point.” And her mouth dropped open. “I’m not sure I want to live with someone who so easily forgets a two a.m. merlot-laced offer to shack up.”

“Is that all it was?” She smiled, meeting the offended tone.

“Hardly,” he said, pulling her into his arms. “No reply to my chivalrous invitation, and for what? To save your co-workers’ jobs, not to mention a well-meaning nonprofit. And here I thought tonight would be all about which side of the medicine cabinet you get and how many drawers this is going to cost me.”

“Clever and understanding,” she said, kissing him. “But I am sorry.”

“I’m not. I wouldn’t have expected anything less of Isabel Lang. As long as . . .”

“As long as what?”

His arms, encircling her, let go, Nate’s fingers brushing along her face. “I can understand as long as that’s what kept you from answering.”

A knitted brow met his. “Of course. How could it be anything else?” Claiming he had no idea, Nate kissed her goodbye before heading back to Boston, Isabel telling him to drive carefully.

Days later, despite Nate’s easy demeanor, Isabel still felt guilty. The entire mess was distracting her from their future. Sitting at her desk, she invoked desperate measures by willing her phone to ring. She wanted to get on with a solution, in turn getting on with her life. There was an internal vow to come clean—five-minute marriage and all—the moment she heard from Stella. That way she could give one cohesive explanation about the Aidan from her past and why he’d suddenly turned up in her present. Staring at the phone, she even went as far as to project positive outcomes. Isabel pictured herself and Nate attending a benefit concert where she and Aidan would exchange pleasantries, briefly reminiscing about bygone days. Maybe she’d mention that the old farmhouse had sold, and how nice it was that the abandoned place would have a future after all. With Nate’s arm securely around her, Aidan would shake his hand, everyone satisfied that things worked out just as they should. Heck, perhaps things would end so amicably she’d even add Aidan to her Christmas card list.

After a week passed, with her phone call to Stella unreturned, Isabel felt markedly different. Amicable, pleasant, and satisfied shifted to perturbed, embarrassed, and plainly pissed off at Aidan’s continued dismissal. She should have taken her ex-husband at his word. His abrupt end to the marriage had come with clear messages, including the one about severing any lingering ties. Giving him the benefit of the doubt was a mistake. It was a fresh opportunity for Aidan to say: “Was me divorcing you in any way unclear?” The media’s portrayal of a spoiled rock star with no boundaries was spot-on. Indulgent, lazy, and slightly self-centered were manageable teenage flaws. Obviously, as a human being, he’d peaked back in Catswallow.

As other ideas surfaced and sunk, Isabel found herself preparing a
“We gave it our best shot . . .”
speech. And she might have delivered it if Tanya hadn’t shown up to work distraught over two out of three child-support checks bouncing. Mary Louise trailed behind with more bad news. Joe had, indeed, lost his job at the shipyard. Failing at this task trumped any bruised ego. She had no choice but to keep at it. Forcing down a bitter dose of humility, Isabel threw the Hail Mary pass she’d been dreading. She called Fitz Landrey. She never got past a personal assistant, who listened as Isabel painstakingly explained who she was and what she wanted. Hiding a belly laugh, and not very well, the assistant remarked about the number of women who called claiming to be an ex-girlfriend of Aidan Royce—though ex-wife, she admitted, was a far more grandiose pretense. Isabel hung up with a thud, her self-esteem pummeled. Seven years removed from Aidan and she’d achieved the one thing she was determined to avoid. She was officially
one of them
.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Long Island

F
ITZ
L
ANDREY
ATTRIBUTED
THE
MAJORITY
OF
HIS
SUCCESS TO KNOWING TALENT
when he saw it. The rest he viewed as an innate ability to cut the right deal at the right time. This was that time. Having waited patiently for Anne Fielding to return from California he suspected his bargaining position would be at its most malleable point. With that in mind, he watched Anne choose the club with which she would handily beat him. Firming up his stance, he prepared to make the sacrifice.

“I’m surprised at you, Fitz,” she said, eyeing him before swinging. “I can’t believe you think rolling greens and a Bloody Mary will get me to acquiesce on Aidan’s contract.” Her golf ball traveled like it had built-in radar, landing midway, perfectly aligned with the green. “Sorry,” she said, smiling, “but I can’t be anything less than myself.”

“I’m counting on it, Anne.” Glancing at his caddy, Fitz’s hand hovered between two clubs, taking the nod as to which one he should select. “You love the game. There’s no reason we can’t enjoy the weather and a round of golf while we chat.” He took minimal aim, his shot looping lamely across the fairway.

“Seriously?” she said, watching the disastrous drive. “Eighteen rounds in a conference room might have been less painful. Besides, you have the list of amended items. For the amount of future income Aidan is worth, it’s a fair deal. This is, um, pleasant but unnecessary.” She winked, Fitz remaining behind as Anne advanced toward her shot, saying over her shoulder, “If you think bargaining on
my
turf
will get me to budge, then I’d say it’s a weak-willed move. Maybe you’re losing your edge.”

He waited until the distance was enough that shouting would be appropriate. “You think so? My apologies, Anne. Let me be more direct. I invited you here to ask if you’d like a hand in putting Aidan Royce in your bed—permanently.”

The nine-iron she marched along with became a third leg and she nearly tripped over it. As Anne pivoted, Fitz watched the spikes of her golf shoes tear into tufts of grass, his words snagging, as he’d anticipated, on her heart. The caddies backed away as business turned personal. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, flashing a ring. “Things are fine with Aidan. Our lives are insanely busy.” But even from the distance he could see her coax excuses into valid reasoning. “It’s a complicated relationship.”

“Complicated to what end? Personally, I think you’re on the cusp. Things could go either way.” He approached, his golf club resting lazily over his shoulder. “I’ve watched the ebb and flow between you and Aidan. He wants it. I’ll give you that much. But something is keeping him from closing the deal.” She began to launch into a defense, Fitz raising a hand to stop her. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m impressed with what I’ve observed. You handle Aidan well. When you realized he’d basically run away to Asia, you made a brilliant countermove.” She narrowed her eyes, arms folding. “Most women would have stuck to him like glue—canceled their lives to protect their interests. Instead, you made the tough choice and retreated. But after his very public Pure Oxygen encounter with Miss October, things changed. It was enough space and you decided to make your presence known.”

“Really, Fitz, do you have a telepathic link to what I’m thinking, how Aidan’s feeling?”

“No,” he said bluntly. “I have a commodity worth hundreds of millions of dollars. It’s my business to know exactly how it’s functioning. Identify any potential glitches and take whatever action is necessary to protect its earning potential. But I’ll admit, even I don’t know everything. So, enlighten me, Anne. Did your trip to the coast result in what you’d hoped? Will you be booking the grand reception hall at the Four Seasons, entertaining offers for exclusive rights to the wedding footage?”

“You bastard,” she said, firming up her stance on the high road. “How incredibly offensive!” Fitz didn’t flinch, the epithet being old news. “I was sure the Fourteenth Amendment and Oprah Winfrey had moved us past that mentality. Is it so incomprehensible that an accomplished woman could take action without an ulterior motive?”

“With a man she didn’t want to marry? Sure,” he said, shrugging. “And I’ll take that as a no.” Silence and a mutual glare alluded to an agreed-upon point. “Listen, I have complete respect for your fierce talents as an attorney and businesswoman. We wouldn’t be standing here if I didn’t. But I’m not a bad businessman myself, capable of recognizing a personal agenda. Along with bastard, you have to give me credit for that.” She snatched up her club, marching past him. “Before you stomp off this course, Anne, consider your position . . . and mine. I won’t reach out a second time. Don’t allow pride to prevent you from getting what you want. I assure you, that trait cost the last woman in your position dearly.”

She stopped, the club digging hard into the earth. “Assuming you’re not completely off the mark. What, exactly, are you after, and how does it involve me?”

An hour later they sat on the country club terrace drinking Bloody Marys, Anne absorbing every morsel Fitz offered. As he suspected, she had no knowledge of Aidan’s brief marriage to Isabel. It was a taboo topic for C-Note’s number one property. After confessing their honeymoon catastrophe, the details of why Isabel left him, since taking it upon himself to end the marriage, Aidan hadn’t spoken of it. But Fitz was surprised to learn that Aidan had never even mentioned an Isabel Lang. Not as an old friend, not even in passing. It was a telling tidbit. “Recently, Isabel Lang tried to contact me. My assistant took the call. It was uninvited and very out of the blue.”

“What did she want? Money?”

He paused, sipping his drink. “In part, but if that was her only motivation I’d hardly need to involve you.”

“True.” Lawyerly speculation faded as women’s intuition kicked in. “Aidan,” she surmised, “she wants Aidan.”

“It’s in the realm of possibility,” he said, waiting for an emotional follow-through. It came via body language. There was a physical shift in alertness, like an animal sensing a predator. The fingertips of her folded arms tightened, nails paling as they pressed into her flesh. “Isabel could very well have a hidden agenda and it would be unwise to ignore her. This girl is determined . . .
hardy.
I know what she’s capable of when faced with a task; I’ve seen the result. She’ll get to him eventually. I can’t have that. Isabel Lang represents serious risk.”

“Risk for you? Why?” she said. “This might concern me, but what do you care about Aidan’s love life?”

“I told you, brief as the marriage was, he was humiliated by it. For Christ’s sake, he’s Aidan Royce. He doesn’t need to deal with the sudden reemergence of Isabel Lang.”

“Mmm, maybe not, but I should talk to Aidan first. You have to know my loyalty is to him, not you.”

Fitz leaned back, his body relaxing. “Right, absolutely. Good answer,” he said, pulling forward, hands folding. “I certainly give you plenty of credit there, Anne.”

“For what?”

“That level of kamikaze loyalty. I can only imagine how Aidan will react when you remind him how poorly he fared on his first trip on the marriage-go-round. Of course,” he said, wagging a finger at her, “there is a chance any negative impact will be offset by shock.”

“Shock?”

“Yes, when he learns about your sudden in-depth knowledge of information he, clearly, didn’t want to share.” Allowing doubt to hover, Fitz continued, “You’re here, Anne. You’ve already laid down in the bed. We’re talking about a man who covets loyalty, craves privacy. You’ve compromised yours by having this conversation. That’s how he’ll see it. You know it is.”

She breathed deeply, studying him. “Tell me more. What does this woman want, specifically, and where do I come into play?”

“Isabel claims the attempt to get in touch is because she needs Aidan’s help. From what my assistant said, she’s the CEO of a nonprofit that will go belly-up without a major financial shot in the arm. She wants Aidan to put on a benefit concert, the proceeds going to some charity called Grassroots Kids.”

“Never heard of it, sounds desperately altruistic. Why the concert? Why not just hit him up for a mega donation?”

“Apparently, the nonprofit is the backend of her proposal. Her day job prompted the call. She works at some lame radio station that recently switched to a rock ’n’ roll format—must have been a real dinosaur.” He paused, watching Anne’s face fade to a decidedly paler shade. “Anne? Something wrong?” She shook her head, pulling more erect, fingers tightening. “Anyway,” Fitz continued, “she wants Aidan to headline a promotional concert.”

“I, um, I didn’t realize there were any dinosaur markets left . . . radio station, you say?”

“Yes,
104.7—The Raging Fever FM for Hot Sound,
if you can believe that, in Providence, Rhode Island, of all places. A speck on the map.”

“Interesting,” she said, taking a long sip of her drink. “The New England area, not somewhere Aidan cares to be.”

Fitz leaned back, considering the observation. “You’re right, he detests the region.”

“Maybe she’s the reason. Maybe if you tell him this Isabel Lang called, Aidan will do nothing more than ask for a restraining order and have you tell her to go to hell.”

“Are you confident that would be the outcome?”

There was a rhetorical sigh, Anne plucking sunglasses from her face. “What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to go there, confront Isabel, and put out this fire. As Aidan’s attorney, a visit from you would be appropriate. Your presence will send the right message.”

“And as Aidan’s fiancée that adds a nice postscript.”

“Why it hadn’t occurred to me,” he said, smiling. “What an appealing plus!” He leaned forward, his fingers tapping the table. “On the other hand, we wouldn’t want your visit to appear rogue or random. Take some C-Note representation with you, that way we cover all our bases.”

“Kai Stoughton brings a nice presence to things, business smarts and industry glamour. Too bad he’s on Aidan’s payroll.”

“To a point. While I don’t think it would be wise to send Kai, we never like to completely relinquish a viable connection at C-Note.” Fitz finished his drink, hesitating before smiling slyly. “Do you really think it was fate that Aidan ended up at Pure Oxygen without his trusty sidekick?” Her eyes widened at the vague confession. “It’s not every day a yesteryear ’80s bass player gets a call to perform with one of the hottest bands around.”

“You? You orchestrated the whole incident? The girl, the boyfriend . . . the cop?”

“Me? I was in Japan. But know this, that timely windfall of publicity resulted in an across-the-board spike in Aidan Royce numbers. Listen,” he said, a celery stalk swirling through ice. “Aidan operates like a thoroughbred racehorse, always has. Sometimes a blindfold is necessary to get him where he needs to be. His talent takes it from there. His image sells the merchandise. A media blitz was exactly what he needed.” Fitz avoided Anne’s cool stare, concentrating on the open green. “It’s not like anyone could have predicted he’d haul off and punch a cop.”

“Fitz that’s—”

“That’s show business, Anne, and you’re not innocent to the culture.” He downed the rest of his drink, the glass hitting the table with a definitive thud. “Look, C-Note will back you with an appropriate entourage. Are you interested in assisting with this Isabel Lang issue or not? Because my other choice involves getting some group like Weak Need to help her out. They’re past their prime, plenty of open dates. But that’s a fluid solution. We’d both fare better with a permanent one.”

From the edge of the high road, a slim finger tapped her chin. “I suppose I could justify intervening. As you pointed out this girl is . . . What did you call her,
hardy
? Who knows what her scheme is.”

“I agree. You have to anticipate with these situations. Strangers would take advantage of Aidan’s celebrity. Imagine the damage someone could do with a real connection. Isabel Lang might decide to write a tell-all book about their marriage, however brief. Look at the public reaction to a single incident involving Aidan; imagine the uproar if there was an entire book. He’d be at the center of scrutiny and scandal while Ms. Lang would survive comfortably in the profit margin.”

Anne nodded along, Fitz watching the seeds of speculation take root. “As Aidan’s attorney it would be negligent if I didn’t protect his interests—all of them. At the very least, it’s reasonable that I investigate the situation.” She reached for her cell phone.

“What are you doing?”

“Making some travel arrangements,” she said, dialing. “You’re not the only one who got where he did by seizing the moment.”

Fitz leaned back in his seat, relaxing, ordering another drink from the waiter.