Close to You (11 page)

Twelve

A
LLIE LOOKED ABOUT AS THRILLED
as if she'd taken a call from the tax man. Not that it was any of his business. Not that he cared.

Jackson stared at the ceiling of his hotel room, his face throbbing. Putting a tentative finger to his cheek, he winced. He wouldn't be surprised if the guy had fractured his cheekbone.

The last time he'd had a black eye, it had been the result of a brawl at a frat party. One he'd inadvertently started after the president had taken exception to Jackson chatting up his girlfriend. Not that he'd known she was.

See. Right there. Girls. Causing Jackson Gregory nothing but trouble since he was five, when Mandy Larson had tattled on him for drinking out of her juice box.

He closed his good eye and groaned as Allie approached. She'd spent the rest of the afternoon reserved, going through the motions. Didn't even crack a glimmer of emotion when little Miss Light Fingered got busted trying to pilfer a special-­
edition mug from the inn, only to find out they were each being given one as a memento.

At least they had the night off. After flying back to Wellington, he'd been relieved to discover there was nothing planned for the evening. His uncle had accepted an invitation to dinner with Ethel. Or maybe Mavis. Jackson really needed to figure out how to tell them apart. Anyway, the upshot was that the other spinster looked like she was about to have a stroke and Jackson was free for the evening.

He logged onto Skype and checked his watch: after midnight in Iowa. His sister was a bit of a night owl, but it was probably a little late to call, even for her.

As if connected by telepathy, his computer screen started ringing. He looked up, expecting to see his sister's family on the screen. Instead it was a somber-looking man in a suit. What was George doing calling him now? It was late in L.A. Whatever it was, it couldn't be good.

He hit the answer button. “What's wrong?” No point bothering with social niceties when the guy charged by the minute.

The liquidator's grainy face peered back at him. “Mr. Gregory. Where are you?”

“I'm in New Zealand.”

The guy looked at him as if he'd taken a shuttle to Pluto.

“I sent your secretary an e-mail.” Jackson tilted the laptop screen so he could see a bit better. “How is winding everything up going?”

“We're getting there. Looking at about twenty-seven cents on the dollar once expenses are taken out.” He gave as close to a smile as Jackson suspected accountants could. “Your car did well at auction.”

“Thanks.” His Corvette Stingray C7 had been his pride and
joy. The day he'd driven off the lot with that baby, he'd truly thought he'd made it.

George cleared his throat, pushed his glasses back up his nose. “I wanted to give you a heads-up that some of the investors are talking about coming after you personally.”

“Me? Why? What for?” Not that he had anything anymore worth them coming after—unless they literally wanted the clothes off his back.

“They seem to have formed a view that either you were negligent in some way or the product was never as close to market as you claimed.”

Opening the minibar, Jackson passed over the hard liquor in favor of a Coke and snapped the can open with a satisfying crack. “Well, they're right on the first point. If you can call not considering your girlfriend in cahoots with your biggest rival negligent.”

“Your refusal to go after Ms. Thomson for corporate espionage isn't helping anything.”

“How could I? She wasn't an employee. She was my girlfriend. And you know as well as I do that trying to sue her would cost far more money than the company has.”

He hadn't breathed a word about Nicole to anyone. However, it didn't take a genius to figure out that when the girlfriend of one businessman shows up on the arm of his closest rival at the same time the first man's company goes bust, there might be a connection.

“Meanwhile, Rob is raking in the millions from your stolen property.”

Jackson sighed. “I know that. You know that. He knows that. Nicole knows that. But how could I ever prove it? The guy is clever. I guarantee he falsified stuff for months to make it
look like the system was something his company had also been working on.”

He took a long pull of his soda. “Do I have anything to worry about?”

The guy shrugged. Must be nice to have a job where you could earn four hundred bucks an hour to do a shoulder workout. “Who knows? This is America. People have been sued for way less. I told them that even if they went after you personally, there's nothing there. You're the first company owner I've ever worked with who sold all his assets to make sure there was something to be distributed to investors.”

“What was I going to do? Drive around in my fancy car and enjoy my flashy condo while they got nothing?” He might have been far from perfect, but he still had a good grasp of the Ten Commandments, and he was pretty sure that fell under “Do not steal.” In spirit, if not in law.

“Um, yeah. That's kind of how it usually works. Do you not know how much the higher-ups at Enron pocketed while driving the company into the ground?”

“Yup. And I have no idea how they live with themselves. So what's my share?”

George consulted something off the screen. “Once you clear off the secured debtors and pay me and the taxman, you get fifty-one percent of the remaining amount.” He scrunched his face as he did some mental arithmetic. “Don't quote me, but I think that would be about thirty grand right now.”

“I don't want it.” There was no way he could take any of the money before a few critical investors had their money back. The ones who had trusted him not with their excess, but with savings they really needed. “Can you give it to some of the others?”

“Well, if you officially decline it, then I have to evenly distribute it among everyone according to their entitlements. But if you have certain people you'd like your share to go to, then put it in writing and I'll arrange for the checks to get cut to them.”

“I'd like to split it three ways between the Slatts, the Mortans, and the Wades.” Ten grand each wasn't going to come close to paying back what they'd invested, but at least it was something.

“So what's the remaining debt add up to?”

“Four point six million, give or take fifty grand.”

Add his parents' debts on top and he needed a nice even five mil to make good with everyone he needed to. Improbable, but not impossible.

“Thanks, George. I'll drop by in a couple of weeks when I'm back. Let me know in the meantime if anyone decides they do want my pants.”

The man's brow furrowed. “I'm not sure a court would literally award them your clothes.”

Sarcasm. Lost on 99.9 percent of all accountants.

Jackson closed his laptop screen. Just what he needed on top of everything else—a potential lawsuit.

Five million bucks. He rolled the figure around in his head. There was a number to focus the mind. Unless the spunky but inconvenient redhead had stacks of cash sitting around, it was time to focus on what he was here for. And it wasn't her.

* * *

A
llie slouched back in her chair at the hotel bar, nursing her lime and soda. It had taken her the best part of an hour to write the report for the head office detailing Jackson's newfound occupation of lifesaver.

If only he'd dodged the punch, she would've been able to justify not writing the report, on the basis that no one had been hurt. But any injury was a mandatory form 44, and even she couldn't pretend he didn't have any of those when half his face was the color of an eggplant.

She blew out a breath and tried to stop her mind from playing the image of him striding out of the lake like he was some kind of Middle-earth version of Colin Firth's Mr. Darcy.

Then, because she was clearly a glutton for torment tonight, she'd Googled Derek and discovered that in the last two years, he had reinvented himself as some kind of PR maven. He even had his own website, with enough schmancy photos of him to fill a fashion catalogue.

She almost threw up a little in her own mouth when she read on his “About” page that he was “happily married to his lovely Kiwi wife.”

She stared at a Google montage of images of him with the who's who of Auckland. How could they all be so stupid?

Allie took a slug of her soda and tried to pretend it was something stronger. She even contemplated asking for a table in the restaurant and ordering the entire dessert menu.

“Penny for them?”

She looked up at Louis, who was leaning against the back of the chair beside her. She hadn't even realized he'd been standing nearby. “Pennies aren't legal tender in New Zealand, I'm afraid.”

He smiled. “True. And from the look on your face, they were the kind of thoughts that would be worth a lot more, anyway.”

Flagging down a passing waiter, he ordered a black coffee,
then came around the chair and sat down across from her. “The heart isn't always wrong, you know.”

Her head jolted. “I'm sorry?”

“My wife. She left me. Took our two kids and disappeared when I was on a work trip. It was years before I saw them again.” He leaned back in the chair and folded his hands behind his head like he was talking about the weather.

“I'm so sorry.”

“It was a long time ago. The sixties, when the world got a bit too drunk on the concept of free love and doing whatever ‘felt' right. I blamed myself. So I decided that because I had such poor judgment of character when it came to her, I could never trust myself again.”

Allie took a long sip of her drink, because she didn't know what to say. The man clearly had some intel on her, but she wasn't planning on offering up anything more if she could help it.

“The truth was, I was right to blame myself, but not because of that. I was so busy making money, building my empire, that I neglected my family. That was the real reason she left. I was just too pigheaded to see it.” He tipped some sugar into the cup that the waiter had placed in front of him and gave it a stir.

“I'm sorry.” Again. For the third time. What else was there to say?

He propped one ankle up on the other knee. Not bad flexibility for an old guy. “My biggest regret is that since then, I've met a number of wonderful women. Many of whom I'm sure would have made me very happy. But I never allowed myself to open up to any of them because of what she did. And so here I am. An old man with a lot of money, but no one to share my life with.”

She opened her mouth to offer a feeble attempt at disagreement, but he shook his head as if knowing what she was going to say.

“It's probably too late for me. But it's definitely not for you.”

“I don't understand.”

Louis gave her a long look. “So you fell for a scumbag. It happens. Don't spend the rest of your life punishing yourself for it. Just because your heart was wrong once doesn't mean it's always going to be. I'm not saying don't be careful. Do your due diligence. But there are plenty of good guys out there, Allison. Give them a chance.”

“I . . . I don't even know if I'm free to.” She gripped her hand in her lap nervously. “There are lawyers and a court case, and it's all a big never-ending debacle.” Her greatest fear clawed at her. What if, at the end of it all, she lost and the court sided with Derek? Then what?

“I know.” He responded to the question that was obviously written across her face. “I have a private investigator check out the people I deal with.” He leaned forward in his seat. “But, unless your lawyers are incompetent, one day it will all be behind you. A distant memory.”

They better not be, given how much they charged her if they so much as thought in her general direction. She swirled her straw around her now empty glass, the remaining ice clinking in the bottom.

“Tell me, Dr. Shire. What do you think about God?” He took a tentative sip of his coffee.

She startled. Now there was a question she hadn't been asked in a long time. “Honestly, I try not to these days. I'm pretty sure He doesn't think much of me.”

Not that she could blame Him. He'd given her enough blazing signs not to marry Derek, an astronaut could've seen them from outer space—but no, she'd had to bowl on through them all. Choosing to believe her own naïve, foolish heart over all the warnings and people telling her she was making a mistake.

One side of his mouth lifted up. “Oh, I know you're wrong about that. Trust an old man who has seen a lot. God always has a way of working things out if we step back and let Him. He's especially good at the ones that appear impossible, because that's when we usually give up trying to fix it ourselves.”

She almost laughed. Easy for him to say when he was crazy rich and returning from what had clearly been a successful dinner date with one of the spinsters. She had lost everything. And so far God didn't seem to be going out of His way to help her out with any of it.

“Well, I'd better turn in. I'll be praying for you.” He stood, knees cracking.

As much as she resented his assumption that she needed him to, knowing that he would be felt kind of nice.

“Oh, and Mavis has bluer eyes.”

“What?”

He gave her a wink. “That's how you can tell her and Ethel apart.”

What was the guy, a mind reader? Oh well, at least that was one problem fixed. These days she'd take whatever crumbs she could get.

Thirteen

J
ACKSON WAS PRETTY SURE THIS
had to count as one of the longest days of his life. It was midafternoon and they'd been on the go since early morning, traipsing after some new guide to obscure places all over Wellington that had allegedly been
Lord of the Rings
or
Hobbit
film locations. Judging by the enraptured expressions of everyone else in the group, he was the only one who thought hammering a tent peg through his forehead would be more enjoyable than this.

He'd managed to show an appropriate amount of enthusiasm hour after hour. They'd been shown the locations where Aragorn was washed ashore after being attacked by another evil thing whose name he couldn't remember, the Gardens of Isengard, the site of the orcs felling the trees, where the hobbits hid from the Nazgûl, and a bunch of other places he had zero interest in, but now he'd officially lost the will to live.

Even the knowledge that his uncle, if he was paying attention, would be able to tell Jackson wasn't exactly an ardent fan
wasn't enough motivation to continue on with the charade—especially since his banged-up face throbbed like it had its own pulse.

The best part of the entire day had been when Elroy and Sofia had an altercation because Sofia questioned Elroy's credentials as a true Tolkienite. Something about how if he was a true fan, then he wouldn't have visited the Helm's Deep location, as the Elves were never there in the book, it was made up for the movies. Allie had moved in to smooth the waters just as it started getting interesting by pointing out that if people only went to the same locations their characters were in the books then everyone would miss out on half the tour.

At least they were at the last stop—Rivendell, aka Kaitoke Regional Park—so the torment would be over soon. They had to get back to the hotel to pack their bags and fly to the South Island first thing in the morning.

Jackson stifled a yawn as the film location guide warbled on enthusiastically in the background. The group moved forward, but he lagged behind, flapping his Boromir cloak in the breeze, feet treading on lush green grass.

“Blah blah Elves blah blah hobbits blah blah one ring to rule them all.” Jackson muttered the words under his breath.

“What did you say?” Allie's voice cut through his thoughts. She was in a new hobbit dress today. A blue one. He hadn't thought it possible, but it was even uglier than the green dress. It must have been smaller, too, because the fat suit was gone. And the feet. The horrible frizzy hair was back, though.

Her face was scrunched: most likely, she was offended by his lack of appropriate reverence for her imaginary best friends. Hmm, this could be fun.

He looked down at her and smirked. “I said blah blah oh look there's a bunch of trees that were in the movie for less than a second! Oh wow—if you stand on one leg and tilt at exactly twenty-seven degrees with one eye closed you can see a rock that was part of Helm's Deep!”

It wasn't like she could deny it. It had been over a decade since
Lord of the Rings
was filmed. Foliage had grown and land had been acquired for other purposes.

“C'mon,” he continued. “Even you have to admit the guide's enthusiasm for a few things was way over the top. Trees. And hills. And a river. And rocks.” He leaned forward and whispered: “Just between you and me, I'm not sure if you noticed, but they all look the same. You can tell me. You guys just point to any old thing and tell people it was in the films, don't you? It's not like they'd ever know.”

The fact that he didn't even pretend to be interested seemed to grate against something deep inside her. He could practically see a fierce protectiveness rise up within her at his blatant derisiveness.

“You realize you are talking about some of the greatest movies of all time? Seventeen Oscars. And that's just the
Rings
, not the
Hobbit
. Eleven for
The
Return of the King
—making it tied for the most Oscars for one film ever!” She was almost spluttering with indignation and outrage. Jackson imagined he had just done the equivalent of telling a new mom her baby was ugly.

He raised an eyebrow. “True. But excuse me if I'm skeptical of the Oscars as a way to judge a film's worth. I remind you that one of the other films that also has eleven gold statues involves Leonardo and Kate making out on a sinking ship and the worst pop song of all time.”

She flinched.
Ah.
He smothered a smile. He'd bet good money teenage Allison had had Jack and Rose posters plastered all over her bedroom wall and that her CD player had blasted Celine Dion on replay. Not that she'd ever admit it.

Allie seemed to regain some equilibrium. “So you're saying you didn't even like the movies?” She looked at him like he'd said he didn't believe in gravity, or the sun, or Double Stuf Oreos.

Jackson shrugged. This was the most fun he'd had all day. By a very wide margin. “Look, clearly we are polar opposites on this, but I'm not sure why they matter anyway. I mean, they're just a bunch of really loooong books and movies. Don't get me wrong, they're not bad, but deserving of all this madness?” He waved his hands in the general direction of the entire universe. “I don't get it.”

She didn't even attempt to restrain her outraged expression. “You can't be serious.”

Maybe if he got her mad enough she wouldn't speak to him for the next two weeks. Better yet, she'd avoid him as much as possible. That would be ideal. Let him get on with why he was here rather than remain distracted by her feisty nature and general pocket-size cuteness. “Dead serious. So a bunch of little people save Middle-earth. Big deal. It's not like that plot isn't the same as those of thousands of other books and movies. I mean, it's all very nice and cuddly and feel-good, but not exactly life changing. Except I guess for the people who made their squillions out of it.”

Her fists clenched at her side; he bet she itched to give him a matching set of black eyes. Too late, he realized that he'd miscalculated—that in his desire to do whatever it took to stop Allie from getting any further under his skin, he hadn't consid
ered that razzing the one person on this tour he needed on his side would be a really bad idea. And now he was in too deep to try and retreat.

“You are so, so . . .” She trailed off, as if there weren't adequate words in the English language to describe him.

“Right. And you know it.” He'd been intending to say something placatory, but the even more inflammatory words just slipped out. Why didn't he just take a spade and dig his own grave? There was no way she wouldn't rat him out to his uncle after this. And part of him didn't blame her.

Allie's face turned an interesting shade of red and she stood on tiptoe in an attempt to get in his face. In her flat shoes, she barely came up to his nose.

“You know what? I feel sorry for you, because the only reason you can possibly not get why Tolkien is so great is because he writes about themes that are sooooo far outside of your frame of reference. It's like your brain flashes a big red ‘Cannot compute, cannot compute.' ”

“Really? Well, since you apparently know me so well, why don't you enlighten me?”

“Like honor and sacrifice and valiance and doing something bigger than yourself for the greater good. Like struggling with your own doubts and fears and frailties and coming out stronger—”

She was still ranting, but Jackson was having trouble concentrating. All of his efforts were going into not focusing on how cute she was when she was mad. Her petite frame was fairly bursting with indignation and disgust.

He had to admit that as pure entertainment, Tolkien was definitely up there. There were even a couple of moments
during the movies he'd felt a twinge of something, not that he would ever admit it to her. But since he'd already cast his die, it was way more fun getting her worked up over her beloved author. Where would the joy be in letting her think he might even be finding his way to a begrudging admiration of the guy?

A sharp poke brought him back to earth. “Ow!” He rubbed the tender spot on his left side where she jabbed him. “What was that for?”

Allie glared at him. “You aren't even listening to me.”

He struggled to keep the smile off his face. “You know why?”

She threw her hands up. “Why?”

“You're pretty cute when you're mad.”

Where that had come from, he had no idea, but apparently he couldn't have said anything to throw her more off-kilter if he tried.

She stumbled, grabbing onto his arm to stop herself from falling. She blinked up at him. Once. Twice. “You are such a . . . such a . . . man!”

And with that, she spun around and stormed away, hideous dress flapping in the wind behind her.

* * *

W
hat was wrong with him? What did he think she was going to say?
Oh wow, thanks. Well then, that changes everything. You're not a total moron after all.

Stupid, insufferable man. Too bad she hadn't done her thesis on Jane Austen. One of Austen's heroines would have had the perfect line to describe him. Probably Lizzie Bennet, since she seemed to have gotten the monopoly on good lines when it came to insufferable men.

Instead, she'd studied a guy who wrote real heroes, whose characters said things like,
“All you have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to you.”
Who battled dragons and orcs and took three arrows in the chest but still kept fighting. Jackson might have been dressed up as Boromir, but Boromir would sooner have died than said something so ridiculous as
“You're pretty cute when you're mad.”
So would Aragorn. Or even naïve, bumbling Sam for that matter.

She tried to ignore the thought tugging at her underneath the surface as she stormed after the rest of the group. So what if Jackson thought she was cute? The words held all the meaning of those of some drunk guy hitting on her at a bar. He hadn't even meant it. He'd said it to throw her off-balance. And it had worked perfectly.

What was wrong with her? Why did she keep letting him get under her skin? What did she care if he didn't recognize the genius of Tolkien? Why hadn't she told his uncle the truth about him? The guy was an arrogant, obnoxious moron who probably aspired to marry someone off
The Real Housewives of Orange County.

She was such an idiot. After yesterday, she had actually thought there might be more to him than she'd originally thought, but she was no better than some girl starring in some teenage rom-com thinking she could convert the bad boy. Convinced that underneath that tough exterior was really a sensitive caring soul that would find its way into the sun if given some tender watering.

The only kind of watering she wanted to do with Jackson Gregory involved holding his head under some.

Before she knew what she was doing, her feet had turned
themselves around and she was marching back to where he still stood. “Were you brought up by the state?”

“Huh?” He wielded his fake sword at her and made some large slashing motions with it through the air.

She tried to ignore his forearms flexing as he completed a figure eight and rested the weapon on his shoulder—the same way she'd been trying to ignore how good he looked in his costume all day.
Focus, Allie. Focus!

“You know, in foster care. Did your father beat your mother? Did your puppy die when you were little and you're still grieving? Were you bullied for being fat in high school? Did a girlfriend cheat on you? Do you have some sort of mental illness?”

His mouth hung slightly ajar at her onslaught. “What?”

“I'm trying to work out if there's some legitimate reason why I should give a nit on a monkey's behind about you, or if you actually are just a total jerk for no good reason.”

“Oh. Well in that case.” He scrunched up his face. “To answer your questions. No. No. No. No. Yes. No.”

She stared at him. Five nos. One yes. Only problem was that in her outburst she couldn't remember the order she asked the questions or even what all of them were. Except she was pretty sure the mental illness one was last and that was a no. Thank goodness. Because that would have been beyond mortifying.

“And no.” He was grinning down at her, perfect white teeth gleaming.

“No?” Another no?

“No, I'm not going to tell you which one I answered yes to. You're a smart girl, Dr. Shire. You work it out.”

He sauntered away, then paused, looking over his shoulder
back at her. “Let's clear one thing up, though. Jackson Gregory has never been fat.”

Argh! If she didn't need this job so bad it would be worth it to smack him in his smug purple face.

This was meant to be a low-stress day for her. Someone else had been paid to be the primary entertainment, allowing her to zone out and worry about a myriad of things that could go wrong early tomorrow in the attempt to relocate nine people and a ridiculous amount of luggage over the Cook Strait.

Instead, she was standing in the middle of a park in the back of beyond, more steamed than a Chinese dumpling.

“Jackson Gregory was never fat.”
The man was unbelievable. What kind of person said that? No doubt it was true. He had the confident bearing of someone who had never gotten a day's grief about his physical appearance in his life, but still.

She tried to ignore the way the smile he tossed back over his shoulder had made her heart kick up a notch, and not out of anger, either. For some completely insane unknowable reason, the guy was growing on her.

Not to mention the glint in his eye now had her wondering how much of his Tolkien-hating had been real and how much had just been him messing with her. And she'd walked straight into it.

Nothing to worry about, Allie.
They had less than two weeks left on the tour. Then he would be gone, back to America, back to his life. Whatever that held. Who cared what it held? Just as long as it had nothing to do with her.