Shopping for an Heir (11 page)

He followed. She no longer cared about the bill, or the scene they were making, or anything else. Escape was paramount. The guy was off.

“Suzanne, I believe there’s been a mistake,” he said from behind her, and then he made a mistake.

A
big
mistake.

He grabbed her arm.

Her elbow met his solar plexus with the kind of artistic grace and perfect timing that made the split-second connection an object of beauty, its own entity independent of time and space.

The sound Chandler made echoed through the bowels of hell.

“Wha?” he gasped as Suzanne unlocked her knees, spinning around, ready to take him down.

Even in heels.

He held his palms toward her in supplication even as he tried to fold at the waist.

“Not hurting you! Not! Not!” he barked.

Literally
barked.

Chandler said those words, then
barked
.

“Arf. Woof,” he said under his breath, eyes widening as if he were signaling Suzanne.

But it was all just noise.

“You’re crazy,” she said.

“Why are you acting like you don’t understand what I’m saying?”

“Because I don’t speak Bark, Chandler.”

“You’re a puppy trainer.”

Suzanne stared at him.

“A what?”

“Your profile. It said you were into puppy dates.”

“So?”

He looked at her like she was stupid. “So...that’s code.”

“Code?”

A ripple of uncertainty filled his eyes. “You know. The code. The code for puppy play.”

“Puppy play?”

“You signed on to be a puppy trainer.”

“I don’t have those skills. I’ve never worked with dogs before. I’m a trust and estate lawyer, Chandler. Not someone who breeds dogs or runs obedience classes.” What a strange mix up. Her profile was clear about being a lawyer.

He shivered, one corner of his mouth going up.

“Wait a minute.” She started to put the pieces together. Obedience. Bad dog. The, uh...questions about elimination. “What, exactly, do you mean by the term ‘puppy play’?”

That grin.

“Oh, Suzanne. You’re quite the commanding woman. I can tell you know how to make a disobedient puppy turn into a good, well-trained dog.”

She just blinked.

“And I’ll pay handsomely for it.”

“You want to pretend you’re a dog and that I’m your owner?”

“Trainer, owner...” His voice dropped. “Name your price.”

Oh, God.

“I thought we were here on a date because we both love dogs!” she protested.

He gave her a lascivious grin. “We are.”

“OUT! I’m out,” she shouted, right in the middle of the food court, blindly stumbling toward the brightest bank of windows she could find. Heart racing, brain scrambled, Suzanne walked quickly to the main doors, relieved by the petroleum-filled air that the streets of downtown Boston pumped steadily through the city.

Horns and shouts, people and engines, all the sounds mingled into background noise that was preferable to being asked about—

She shuddered.

DoggieDate, huh?

She was done.

Absolutely
done
with online dating.

Bzzz.

Her cell phone.

Reminder: 1 p.m. meeting with James McCormick.

Reminder: 2 p.m. meeting with Gerald Wright.

The clock read 12:30 p.m. Just enough time to get to McCormick’s house for whatever was going on. James McCormick hadn’t specified why he wanted to meet with her, but she assumed it had to do with his late wife’s family trust.

Then back to the office for this roller coaster of a day.

Somehow, Chandler Hopkins managed to make her date last night with Steve Raleigh look like a damn romancefest.

Kari was going to die laughing over this one.
Die.

Someday this would be funny.

Right now, though, she just needed a shower, a large coffee, and to delete her DoggieDate profile.

Permanently.

“
M
orning
, Mr. McCormick,” Gerald said, opening the door to the SUV limo.

James glared at the black beast of a car. “Andrew has some of the strangest ideas about luxury,” he grumbled as he climbed in, settling in the middle seat, reaching for the coffee Gerald had procured for the old man.

“Sir?”

“Gerald, do you like driving these SUVs?”

Gerald knew James McCormick was not actually soliciting his opinion. Recently, Anterdec’s CEO and James McCormick’s son, Andrew, had phased out the older limousines and replaced them with SUVs. The elder McCormick hated the change.

Then again, the man hated
any
change, unless it involved an increase in profits.

“I do, sir, but I also enjoy driving anything but a tank, and asphalt is a luxury.”

James laughed, the sound genuine.

“I would imagine anyone who served our fine country in a combat zone would feel that way, Gerald.”

Gerald liked the old guy, even if he was an arrogant, pompous jerk sometimes. People were complex. No one was perfect. And as a character study, Gerald found him fascinating. Most of the people he saw the elder McCormick interact with either loved him, hated him, or tried to get something from him.

“Yes, sir. You said Dana Farber?” The famous cancer center in Boston was the location for the last two months of appointments.

The brown eyes that met his in the rearview mirror were filled with anger. “Yes,” he said, as if the word itself meant admitting defeat.

“Yes, sir.” Gerald moved the enormous SUV down the street like it was a sedan, enjoying the power of the V8 engine. Andrew McCormick had swapped out all of Anterdec’s traditional limousines just last month, finally getting rid of the handful the company had kept for the elder McCormick. Gerald had shined James McCormick on. He much preferred the SUVs.

The window glass was stronger, the privacy at a higher threshold, and security was easier.

Gerald wasn’t just a chauffeur, after all.

He was a bodyguard as well. James McCormick insisted on hiring drivers with special military backgrounds. Lance, one of the other drivers, had worked for a Blackwater-like private security company before joining the Anterdec team. Two other drivers, José and Tim, rounded out the team who drove the three top Anterdec executives.

Make that two top Anterdec execs.

Declan was gone now.

“Becky?” he heard McCormick say into his phone. “Get me the PR department. I need to schedule a meeting with them to think of ways we can exploit my son’s pending wedding. No, not that son. He’s already married. I’m talking about Andrew. We need a spike like we got from that crazy helicopter escape. Assemble the PR team for a brainstorming session to come up with ideas. What? No! Absolutely not,” he barked into the phone. “Andrew is not to be consulted. It will be presented to him as a
fait accompli
.”

Click.

McCormick let out a sound of disgust. “Damn kids. They really don’t understand how good they have it.” Gerald swore he heard a touch of South Boston in those words.

“Sir?”

A deep
harumph
was his only reply.

Gerald smothered a grin. What James McCormick didn’t know was that Andrew McCormick was currently busy making plans with his fiancée, Amanda, that subverted his father. The two had zero interest in turning their wedding into a media spectacle.

Take two giant egos like Andrew and James and put them in conflict.

This would be better than watching
Batman vs. Superman
.

And Gerald had a front-seat view.

Literally.

McCormick tapped on his phone and began speaking. “You’re lining up all the media coverage, yes? No, the wedding’s not planned until 2018. That’s right. How the hell is it my concern whether we can schedule that far in advance, Brona? Make it happen. Clear Litraeon so we can have an escape hatch if needed. I’ll work on getting Amanda’s mother to do something media-worthy.”

As James McCormick barked out orders, Gerald smothered yet another smile. Pam Warrick, from what little exposure Gerald had to the woman, was about as likely to create a media drama as Marie Jacoby was to fade quietly into the background.

The rest of the drive involved a series of calls to investment bankers. McCormick used every second in the limo to conduct business. Just like Andrew. When did these guys get downtime?

The trip from James McCormick’s Back Bay home to Dana Farber was fairly short, and by the time he pulled the SUV up to the special entrance, it was 8:35 a.m.

“Ten minutes early. Might as well get it over with.” As James McCormick exited the SUV, he gave Gerald a grave look. “Three hours or so, like last time. You’ll escort me home.”

Last time McCormick looked like death warmed over. Gerald had stayed with him until he fell asleep, sworn to secrecy. “Would you like for me to run errands? Do any shopping while I wait?”

“No.”

The guy didn’t even bother to turn around as the clipped syllable floated back to Gerald.

No big deal.

He was used to it.

As Gerald pulled away from the private entrance, he mentally scanned the SUV. Gas tank half full; fill it. Car hadn’t been washed in five days but was clean. He pulled into a commercial car wash where Anterdec had an account, and listened to classic rock for twenty minutes while the car was washed. Interior detailing took place back at the underground garage at headquarters on a rotation schedule, so he didn’t need to worry about that.

McCormick would come out of the appointment asking for a ginger beer (non-alcoholic) and in need of lemon tea. Meeting the creature-comfort needs of billionaires wasn’t particularly difficult, but you needed to be on top of logistics at all times.

Who better than a former Navy SEAL to manage
that
?

His personal mobile phone buzzed.

Reminder: inheritance meeting 2 p.m.

Right. He hadn’t forgotten. But he still hadn’t actually read the paperwork in his gym bag. Why would Harold Hopewell leave a damn thing to someone like Gerald? The only billionaires he knew were the McCormicks, and he collected a paycheck from them.

Not a trust fund check.

Pulling into the Anterdec underground garage, Gerald waved to Miles, the security guard at the private entrance. Miles was a fellow vet, but thirty years older. Vietnam.

As he set the gas pump on automatic, Gerald let the gallons fly and finally opened the letter Suzanne had given him last night.

The words blurred.

Artifact.

Harold Hopewell.

Precious item saved from the black market.

Integrity.

Bequeathed to you for your service and honor.

As an artist, you understand the deeper value...

Gerald reeled. The words blurred because blood rushed to his temples, the streak of shock riding from ass to earlobes, setting him on guard.

This had to be a joke, right?

And then he saw the name. That damn name.

Harrison Kulli.

His eyes narrowed, the words coming into sharp focus.

He read on, the letter becoming less formal, a personal note from Hopewell himself.

“The same man who tried to steal the artifact and sell it on the black market may return, like a bad penny, to disrupt the transfer of ownership from my estate to you, Gerald. Eleven years ago, your stalwart work in preserving this treasure was critical. I am well aware of the measures you took—legal and illegal—to bring this sacred item to a place of safety, from the scheming hands of those who would desecrate it. Do not be surprised by Harrison Kulli’s reappearance at this juncture. As before, I trust you will thwart his efforts.”

As his teeth shifted suddenly, Gerald realized he was grinding them, jaw tight as an alligator’s with prey in it.

Kulli.

That bastard.

Speed reading through the rest, he heard the click of a gas pump in the distance. Tank full. Real life moved on, second by second, action by action as he took in the future and the past in one single sheaf of pages.

Kulli. Suzanne. The artifact. The mental list of work errands he had to run. All the tiny life issues he juggled in the back of his mind.

And then there was the emotional response of all the carefully glued-together pieces of his soul.

One second at a time, he reminded himself.

You live one second at a time.

Even if it feels like they’re all dumped on you at once.

Bzzz.

Work phone.

James McCormick.

Come back now
, is all the text said.

Yes, sir
, he replied automatically, stuffing the inheritance papers in his front jacket pocket, a cold dread filling him. He’d never been summoned back to the hospital so quickly for the elder McCormick.

This wouldn’t be good.

For months, the old man had hidden his true condition from his kids. What little he shared with Gerald made it hard to gauge. The cycle seemed to be treatment, fatigue, recovery.

Gerald never asked. Wasn’t in his job description. He took orders, watched for danger, and worked to make the lives of the McCormick men as glitch-free as possible.

In return, they didn’t ask him questions about his life, either.

A good bargain.

Back at Dana Farber fifteen minutes later, Gerald live-parked and marched straight for the reception desk. Years ago he’d learned that the same skills used in managing recruits—namely, to pretend you had ultimate authority—worked well on people whose job was simply to point the way.

Five minutes later, he was in a private room with James McCormick, who looked like someone had drained all the blood out of him.

“Excuse me,” said a small woman with a shock of grey hair amidst thick, dark brown waves. “Are you Mr. McCormick’s son?”

Both Gerald and James McCormick looked scandalized at the thought.

“No. I’m his chauffeur.” Not quite true, but that was the face they showed to the world.

Her demeanor changed, an injection of sympathy in the look she gave McCormick. “I see. Then patient confidentiality means that I cannot comment on his condition.”

“He’s fine,” McCormick grunted.

She gave Gerald a no-nonsense look. “James had an adverse reaction, so we’re halting treatment today.” She patted McCormick’s hand. “It happens.”

“It hasn’t happened to me before,” McCormick said weakly.

“Self-care for the next week is mandatory.” She looked at Gerald. “We gave him some anti-anxiety and anti-nausea medication. He shouldn’t be left alone for the next twelve to twenty-four hours.”

“Quit talking about me like I’m not in the room. I’m fine,” McCormick snapped.

“Your labs say otherwise, Mr. McCormick,” the doctor announced. She shrugged and left.

He made a dismissive noise. “Let’s go,” the old man said, gruff and angry.

“Sir?”

McCormick began to stand, then keeled to the right in an alarming fashion. By his side in seconds, Gerald grabbed him in time, keeping him upright.

“I could use a sit-down,” McCormick said, as if he were asking for a martini. With great care, Gerald spent the next ten minutes moving him to the main foyer, then out to the SUV. It was like moving a box you can’t lift, one shove at a time, except Gerald had to be gentle.

“I hate these machines,” McCormick growled as Gerald worked to find the smoothest way in. He had to give McCormick credit; it was much easier helping a sick person into a traditional limousine vs. an SUV.

“Home.” The simple word carried so much.

“Sir, should I call one of your sons to help—”

“No! Absolutely not.”

“I’m sure they would want to know—”

“Did I ask for your opinion?”

Any other man would have been cowed by James McCormick’s tone, but Gerald took it in stride.

“No, sir.”

“I don’t appreciate my chauffeur telling me how to live my life.”

All right. That was
it
.

“If I were just a chauffeur, sir, I would agree. But I am your security detail as well, and I would be remiss in my duties if I left you alone while compromised.” Gerald pulled out his best commanding voice, planning on the spot, figuring out all the moving parts as they rolled out so he could find a way to make sure the old man was going to be okay.

“Excuse me?” The belligerent tone was fading, though McCormick’s demeanor was stiff.

“It’s a matter of corporate integrity, sir.” Thinking on his feet, Gerald decided the best approach was to appeal to the man’s sense of pride and his business acumen. “Anterdec needs you. I work for Anterdec. I would hate to have to face the board of directors in the future to explain why I left one of their most valuable assets ill and alone.”

“Their
most
valuable asset,” McCormick corrected him with another
harumph
.

“Of course.”

“Andrew may be CEO now, but I built this company from the ground up. I sacrificed and deferred.” He paused, taking in a slow, deep breath. “I gave everything to my company.”

“And your results are admirable.”

McCormick watched him, eyes narrowing, as he breathed slowly and thoroughly, clearly working on managing whatever physical state made him so pale, so angry.

“Yes. They are.”

“And a man of your stature should have someone here to help take care of any matters that might require assistance, like phone calls, rescheduling, errands...”

“That person is you.”

“Sir, I have a two p.m. appointment. I have to leave by half past one.” He looked at the clock. 11:15. “Should I call Becky?”

“Becky?” McCormick’s eyes flew open. He looked like someone shot him in the chest. “Hell, no.” Rumor had it the old man had been sleeping with his executive admin for a few years, and Gerald had wondered.

Confirmation comes in the strangest moments.

“Then who?”

While McCormick closed his eyes and refused to answer, Gerald realized he had the answer.

Pam.

When you work for wealthy people long enough, you learn an important lesson: time really is money. Make yourself valuable enough, and you can get away with murder. Being irreplaceable is a form of job security, because for the wealthy, the transition of training someone new to handle their quirks was more painful than almost any employee behavior.