Aching for Always (16 page)

“Stop!” he cried, bent from the laughter.

“Capped, of course, by me returning to the office to do the end-of-month report. Oh yeah, we know how to tear things up.”

“Poor Joss.” He touched her hand affectionately. “Your father said you were the only kid with gray hair he ever knew.”

For good reason, she thought, and then immediately wished she hadn't. Yes, her father had been a complete asshole to her mother. She remembered that clearly. And yes, he'd been brutal to his business partners, a fact that had come back to haunt him later when he needed help. But there were also good things about him. He'd brought her to business meetings when she was little. She remembered sitting on his lap while he rattled out instructions, his deep voice rumbling through the room.

One of the things she loved about Rogan was that he'd befriended her father. In fact, she was sure that had a lot to do with why she'd fallen in love with him. A chance conversation in line at a coffee shop had led to a long dinner. She'd told him about her father's illness and the
hospital visits that had become a regular part of her routine. The next morning, at the door to the hospital's visitors' entrance, she'd found him waiting, flowers and magazines in hand. They'd visited her father together. It was only then that she'd discovered he, too, was a corporate magnate. And since she'd chosen to use her mother's name at eighteen, it was also only then that Rogan had discovered the father she'd been talking about was Alfred Brand of Brand Industries. Unsurprisingly, the men hit it off instantly, and soon Rogan had taken over the morning shift. In another month, Rogan had agreed to buy her father's failing company and infuse it with new capital. A month after that, her father was dead, and she and Rogan were engaged.

She looked at the ring. Why, when she looked at the beautiful diamond and thought about what it stood for, did she feel a nagging hint of ambivalence? Rogan was great. She knew being married to him would be wonderful. She guessed it was because there would always be that specter of her parents' marriage hovering out there in her mind.

“Say, my key to the rare map room still works, doesn't it?” She returned to her seat and dropped the binder on her desk. “I mean, I know you're putting in new security, but the changeover isn't until next week, right?”

“It still works. Why?”

“I don't know. I was thinking about my mom, and I thought I might take an hour and go through the old stuff again. I know she loved it. It makes me feel like she's near.”

“Sounds great. You could use a little break. Oh, and about the party tonight—”

“I haven't forgotten. Aunt Cathy: hard of hearing but won't admit it. Uncle Jared: don't mention politics. Cousin Brad: the only one who doesn't know his wife is sleeping with his business partner. See, I pay attention.”

Rogan smiled. His mother had invited half of Pittsburgh for cocktails tonight at a private room in the nearby Heinz History Center.

“I have to duck out of here at six to get Brad at the airport,” he reminded her.

“That's fine. I'll meet you at the party a little before seven thirty.”

“Perfect.”

She gave him a lopsided smile. “Let the roller-coaster ride begin, eh?”

“Indeed.”

“Oh, wait, I forgot.”

“What?”

“I must have left my card key at your place. I had to sign in downstairs. Can I get yours, just for today?”

He reached for his wallet. “It's going to make getting to the men's room a little trickier.”

“Give me a call. I'll be happy to escort you.”

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTEEN
 

The beautiful mapmaker was happy to have helped the old man. She didn't want the gold, for she, too, was as happy as could be, but she didn't want to offend him, so she thanked him and left the gold where he'd hidden it. Later, she told her dark, handsome husband the romantic story, but her husband only wanted to hear about the gold. She didn't tell him the old man had given it to her. Instead she told him the old man had thrown it in the river. Her husband said the old man was a fool.

—The Tale of the Beautiful Mapmaker

The sound of a distant phone ringing broke her concentration. Five fifty? Holy crap! A low-fat peach yogurt and a Byzantine nondisclosure agreement from the Uruguayan Office of Survey and Measurements were not exactly likely to win the prize for the most absorbing combination, yet somehow she'd missed her five-thirty deadline.

She grabbed her bag and ran. She didn't want to be late for the fitting, though she told herself that was because she had a hectic schedule that night, not because she wanted to see Hugh. The blouse she'd picked for the
cocktail party, a Jaipur-inspired print, looked great, and, perhaps more important, today's lingerie didn't present such a picture of insouciant unrespectability. Nonetheless, they were quite fine. She smiled.

“Have a great dinner,” LaWren called, lifting her gaze from the multiscreened guard desk when Joss passed. “And find that card.”

Joss made her way out of the building and opened her umbrella. Rain had fallen softly and steadily all day, though it was supposed to clear up soon. She hurried down the alley, slowing only when she saw that the lights in the tailor shop were still on. With a curious sigh, she slipped through the weird, buzzing skin of the invisible dome and opened the door of the shop.

Fiona, who was standing behind the counter, smiled and said hello.

“Is he in there?” Joss shook out her umbrella and pointed to the other side of the curtain.

“Hugh, do you mean?”

Who else?
“Yes.”

“Oh, I'm sorry. Hugh's been delayed. He asked if you'd wait. He shouldn't be longer than half an hour.”

Joss considered. That was going to make the fitting tight. Nonetheless, she didn't want to miss it, or him.

She took a seat in the fitting room, pulled out her cell and began to answer some of the late-afternoon e-mail.

Hugh stole a glance at the woman with the metal studs in her brow and ambled across the lobby of the USX
Tower. Two days of reconnaissance had made one thing eminently clear: few people in this busy, crowded world paid attention to anything. He was wearing a dark pair of trousers and a dark shirt, but he suspected he could have walked through the place in his full captain's kit and no one would have batted an eye. His chosen time reflected a compromise between the anonymous rush of five o'clock, when hundreds of workers streamed out of the moving boxes into the streets and he could slip upstream without drawing attention, and the reassuring emptiness of seven o'clock, when he could make his way through the offices upstairs with little notice.

He brought the piece of wood to his ear and began to talk and nod. He'd had Nathaniel fashion a little deck-of-cards rectangle like Joss's that afternoon. It had none of the magic of the decks of cards that seemed to be in use by half the visible population at any given time. Nonetheless, it would allow him to linger unnoticed for long periods of time by the tollgate that had been set up in front of the entrance to each collection of moving boxes.

The event he awaited had happened twice that morning and three times that afternoon, so he knew if he was patient, he would likely be rewarded.

He was in luck. In less than a quarter hour, a woman with an armload of books and satchels, wearing a pair of those impractical shoes, took an unattended step and tumbled to the slick floor, scattering her belongings in every direction.

The guard ran to her side. Hugh hurdled smoothly over the gate, slipped into the group heading into the
moving box and, following the process that seemed to be laid out for riders, said, “Forty-six, please.”

He wondered if Joss was disappointed he was late.

Joss hit Send, looked at the time and sighed: 6:25. Their time together would be sadly compressed.

Fiona stuck her head in. “I apologize. Hugh just let me know he'd like to meet you at the tavern at the William Penn Hotel for a glass of wine, if you're willing.”

It would have to be a damned quick one. She needed to be back on Grant on her way to the History Center by seven fifteen. She gathered her umbrella and bag. “Should we reschedule the fitting?”

“You needn't worry. The dress is actually finished. Hugh has it with him. If there are any modifications necessary, which I doubt, you can bring it back tomorrow. How's that?” She gave Joss a good-service smile. “I think you'll like it. It's beautiful.”

Joss was halfway to the William Penn Hotel when her phone rang.

“Joss?” It was LaWren.

“What's up?”

“I think I found your card.”

“Really? Where?”

“Do you happen to know a really cute guy, about six two, with a scar through his eyebrow?”

Omigod! Hugh had found the card, though why he was dropping it off at her office instead of giving it to her at the fitting, Joss couldn't guess. “Yes, I do,” she said happily.

“Okay, well, he's breaking into your office right now. Is that a problem?”

Joss felt her blood chill for an instant before a bottle rocket shot to the top of her head, exploded in a dizzying fireball of heat and rained down in flaming embers of shame.

“What exactly to you mean?”

“I mean the monitor flipped to your office hallway. The guy entered his card and opened the door. Since I knew you'd lost your card I checked the system to see whose card that was. Every once in a while two cards are given the same code, but it's pretty rare. Anyhow, I checked to see who it was, so we could have that fixed—and, of course, so you could kick his ass for going into your office—but the system said it was you. It's your card.”

Joss felt ill, physically ill. She'd been tricked, and she'd fallen for it—hard. Her brain was running in six directions, a hundred miles an hour. He hadn't wanted a fitting, a last chance to see her before she'd married. He'd wanted a known time for her to be out of her office.

Oh, God, oh, God. And still her feet were taking her toward the hotel bar, hoping but not believing that he'd be sitting there, holding the dress, and this would all be a big mistake.

“Joss?”

“Yeah, I'm here.” She could barely think over the horrified buzzing in her brain. He must have taken the key from her purse the previous evening. “What's he doing? Can you see?”

“Sure, I can see everything. The security company was in last week and upgraded everything. There's a camera
right in your office. Didn't you see it? It's in the ceiling? Looks like a smoke detector?”

She frowned. “No.”
Why wouldn't Rogan have mentioned doing that?

“He's looking through your files.”

She thought of what she had in her office. Contracts, new product plans, some personnel stuff. Was he a thief? Or a corporate spy? She was trying to think straight, but all she could hear was: “I want to make this dress for you. Come back tomorrow. Right before we close,” and all she could see was the look on his face as he pinned the silk up that long, gaping chasm.

Bastard.

“He's looking at the picture on your desk.”

“What?” It was a shot of her and Rogan at a party. Di had snapped it without their knowledge. Joss was laughing at something he'd said, and he was rubbing her hand with his thumb as his eyes twinkled in delight.

“Oh, he's opening your file cabinet!” LaWren cried. “Do you want me to call nine-one-one?”

Oh, God, more people knowing she's been suckered? “No. Let's see what he does.” She began to jog back toward the office.

“He's looking at a map.”

“Which one?”

“I can't . . . Hold on. It's big.”

“Is it the one of Uruguay?” So much for the nondisclosure.

“Jeez, I don't know. Why don't you look?”

Then Joss remembered: the security cameras fed a protected company website. Occasionally, just for fun, she'd
pull up the page and amuse herself with the amazing things people do when they forget you're watching.

“Hang on.” She stopped and pulled her phone away from her ear. Then she typed the URL into the tiny screen, followed by her ID and password. In a moment, she watched a reasonable facsimile of her office pop into view.

The transmission was jerky and incredibly small, but there was no way the man was anybody but Hugh. She could feel the cold rain hitting her ankles.

“Joss?”

She heard the tiny squawk coming from her phone and hit the Speaker button. “Yeah, I'm here.”

“Do you see the map?”

“Yep.” It wasn't the map from Uruguay. It was an antique map. The one she had mounted on her wall. It was of France, from around 1700. She'd bought it at an auction because she'd loved its intricate compass rose. “Wait,” she said suddenly, “I've lost the picture. I'm looking at the lobby instead.”