Man Trouble (22 page)

To Molly's surprise, the sudden publicity had caused the sales of
Pirate Gold
to jump, lifting the paperback to number two on the mass-market best-seller lists. Her agent e-mailed her to say that he humbly apologized for all of the times that he had scolded her for refusing to promote the book, because he now understood that she was some kind of Zen master of publicity who knew exactly what she was doing. A national book-signing tour had nothing on an engagement to a celebrity billionaire. Plus, her hair looked great. And what about that sequel?

Despite having her name and photograph (a new and improved version created with the help of a stylist, a hairdresser, a makeup artist, and a lighting specialist, all of whom had been awaiting her when she arrived at Gold Bay) plastered all over the news, Molly hadn't yet come face-to-face with a single reporter. Jake had been the one handling the media so far, as well as dealing with a “serious business issue,” as Cora cautiously described it. As a result, Molly hadn't seen him at all. She was being flown to Manhattan to meet him on Saturday, where she was due to be “launched,” like a book or a ship, at the opening of the new Berenger Grand hotel on Fifty-sixth and Fifth. The Grand was a New York landmark, but it had slumped into disrepair until Berenger acquired it. They had closed the hotel fifteen months ago for a complete renovation, and the reopening was expected to be one of the major social events of the year. The Operation Family Man team had agreed that it would be an ideal venue for the press to meet Jake's fiancée.

“Tom, Molly needs a
real
break,” said Cora Berenger from the periphery of the room. Molly looked up, surprised. She hadn't realized that Jake's mother was there. Cora had been supervising the proceedings since Molly returned to Gold Bay, and this was not the first time that she had stepped in to rescue Molly. Molly had become convinced that Tom Amadeo was able and willing to work twenty-four hours a day, neither eating nor sleeping, and that without Cora's intervention, he would have demanded the same from her.

Tom looked annoyed. “Not yet, we're behind schedule. We still need to cover”—he checked his clipboard—“Wedding Date questions, Do You Feel Like Cinderella questions, and Are You Intimidated by Famous Ex-Girlfriends questions.”

“That may be so,” Cora said pleasantly, “but it's teatime.”

Ten minutes later, Cora and Molly were sitting under the bougainvillea arbor on the terrace, drinking tea and eating the small sandwiches that Molly had enjoyed during her week at the resort. Tom had surrendered without a second protest, which was no surprise to Molly. It had taken only one day at the villa before she realized who was in charge at Gold Bay. Jake might be at the helm of Berenger Corporation, but Cora was Queen of the Island, and woe to anyone who forgot it.

Molly liked Cora Berenger's stately dignity, her down-to-earth sense of humor, and the fact that she didn't have the surgically sculpted look that was so common among women of her social class. Cora wore her own face, lines and all, with an old-world elegance that made her seem more attractive and more formidable. She was the absolute opposite of Molly's anxious, submissive mother, and Molly was fascinated by her.

Cora poured her a fresh cup of tea and offered her the plate of sandwiches. “You were starting to look pale in there, my dear. I admire Tom's work ethic, but he forgets that normal people need to rest. He doesn't understand that teaching is like watering a plant. You have to regulate the stream, giving it time to soak in, or else it all overflows and you end up with mud.” She smiled. “But you're a teacher, of course, so you already know that. Don't let Tom—or me—bully you. If you need a break, just say so. You're doing us a favor, after all.”

“Not really,” Molly said. “I think it's a pretty fair trade.”

“Do you? All this work for a gamble on an island museum and the directorship of a small foundation? I hope that you don't mind my frankness, but is that really why you agreed to help us? It doesn't seem worth it.”

“You're forgetting the impact on my book sales,” Molly said. “Your son is single-handedly pushing me up the bestseller lists.”

“Yes, I know. Did you expect that to happen? Forgive me, but you don't seem very…marketing-minded.”

“That would be considered a compliment at Belden.”

“But you're not at Belden anymore.”

“No,” Molly said. “I'm not. So I need to learn how to operate in the real world, and I thought that this would be good training. My anonymity was already gone, so I had nothing to lose by working with Jake, and I knew that the publicity would be good for
Pirate Gold.”

“Hmm,” Cora said thoughtfully. “Well, that certainly was a bargain for us. Book sales or no, if I were you, I would have asked for something more concrete than a promise of a possible museum.”

Molly smiled slightly. “Would Jake have agreed to the museum and the foundation if I'd made it an unconditional demand?”

“Oh, I don't think so,” Cora said. “He's gambling, just like you are. He doesn't want to redo the plans for the golf course. It would be expensive for the company, and he would look very careless for not foreseeing the problem. That's the last thing he needs right now.”

Molly nodded. She had guessed as much, despite Jake's early attempts to placate her by telling her that he had a soft spot for historical sites. Their last conversation at Gold Bay, when he had threatened to expose her as Sandra St. Claire if she tried to block the golf course development, had made his true colors very clear.

He had signed the agreement, betting that she wouldn't find proof that Dyer's Fortune had belonged to Mary Morgan. What he hadn't known was that she had already found it. She had two documents in her suitcase, courtesy of her friend at the British Library. The first was a copy of a marriage certificate dated 1722, joining one Mary Dyer to Captain Frederick Morgan of His Majesty's Royal Navy. Mary was sixteen years old at the time, and Molly now had a good idea of where she had picked up her sailing skills.

The second was an old will, dated 1749, in which Ephraim Dyer of St. Anthony's Parish, Antigua, did bequeath his lands and property to his “dear and affectionate” daughter, Mary, for her sole use and benefit forever.

Frederick's fate remained a mystery, but the connection between Mary Morgan and the Dyer name was clear. It had taken three pages of legalese to define “proof in a way that satisfied Jake, who had made it as narrow and specific as possible, thinking that he was making a safe bet. But he had greatly underestimated the power of the academic network.

Molly could have warned him that the British colonies had been wonderfully efficient at record keeping and—with the exception of documents lost through fire, shipwreck, or other disasters—most of what had been written down in eighteenth-century Antigua now resided in various archives in London.

She didn't know when she would break the news to Jake, but she did know that she would enjoy his shock and dismay. He would look like a fool when he was forced to relocate his golf course. It wasn't exactly an eye for an eye, but it would be a satisfying blow.

“I still think that you should have been a little more practical, dear,” Cora said. “That old plantation obviously means a lot to you, but Jake is a very stubborn man, and he always puts the company first. He won't give an inch on this, believe me. What will you do if you don't find your proof?”

Molly tried to give a guileless smile. “Well,” she said, “if my plans for the museum don't work out, I'll still consider myself lucky to have enjoyed so much time at Gold Bay.”

She saw a slight frown touch Cora's forehead, as if the older woman wasn't convinced. Molly did feel guilty for lying to her, but she had no choice. She could hardly confess to Jake's mother that she was planning to pay him back for the loss of her job and her reputation. The pieces were all in place, and she had Jake right where she wanted him. He didn't know it yet, but messing with Molly Shaw was going to turn out to be more embarrassing and more expensive than he had ever expected.

CHAPTER 21

J
ake's apartment in the new Berenger Grand had been designed by Sir Harry Smythe, the famous British architect whose firm had handled the remodeling of the entire hotel. Spanning one-third of the forty-fifth floor, and reachable by its own private elevator, the apartment was an ultramodern loft-style space, with soaring glass outer walls buttressed by stainless-steel beams. Downtown Manhattan lay spread out below, and Jake's interior designer had worked hard to create a living space that echoed, but did not compete with the glittering magnificence of the city. The furnishings were modern and minimal, with leather and steel furniture, and textured area rugs that covered sections of the sandstone floor. The inner walls were decorated with huge black-and-white abstract prints, and most of the color came in dramatic splashes from tall arrangements of orchids.

It was all new, and had all been chosen, purchased, and arranged by Jake's staff, from the sheets on the bed to the soap in the bathroom to the shirts in the closet to the spatulas in the kitchen drawer. The lack of his own personal touch didn't bother Jake at all—his real home was in Miami, and this apartment was intended to be a showplace, not a cozy retreat. Besides, it was shockingly beautiful, and it amused him to open random drawers to discover what he owned.

“What the hell is this thing?” he asked, holding up a small gadget made of a cheap-looking plastic base attached by a hinge to a frame strung tightly with parallel wires.

Tom Amadeo squinted at it. “Cockroach torture instrument,” he said.

“No, it's not. It's a hard-boiled egg slicer,” said Molly. She was perched on the edge of a kitchen bar stool, trying to avoid crushing her gold taffeta gown. It was Saturday night, and downstairs in the ballroom the party was in full swing. They were due to make their entrance soon, and Molly was rigid with tension. Her hair had been styled into an elaborate updo, and a makeup artist had spent an hour painting her face into a seemingly airbrushed perfection. Technically, she was beautiful, but between her glassy-eyed expression and the overall stiffness of her dress and hair, she looked more like a department-store mannequin than a woman. Jake and Tom were doing what they could to amuse and relax her while they waited, and somehow they had all ended up in the kitchen.

“Okay, how about this one?” Jake displayed another mysterious-looking item.

“Cockroach juicer,” said Tom.

“It's a garlic press,” Molly said. A tiny smile touched the edges of her mouth.

“Forget about it,” said Tom, shaking his head. “This is New York City. Sooner or later, it's all about the roaches.”

Molly laughed, and Jake and Tom exchanged looks of relief. Jake was feeling more than a little uptight himself. The campaign's first week had been very promising, but this was the big night. Just as Cora had predicted, the news media had been delighted by the story of the playboy's taming at the hands of the professor, and the fact that the professor had been maintaining a secret life as Sandra St. Claire added extra spice to the stew. Molly's own notoriety suddenly rivaled Jake's own, and the ballroom was filled with people hoping to get a look at her. Berenger stock was up one point, and Tom had arranged for the
New York Times
to publish the first personal interview with Jake, a favorable profile called “Hospitality's Terrible Tycoon Comes of Age.”

Operation Family Man was right on track, but so far, it had been under Tom and Jake's complete control. Now—by necessity—they were handing over some of the power to Molly. Tom insisted that she was ready, but she didn't look ready to Jake. She looked…unpredictable. If he had had any choice in the matter, he would have left her in seclusion at Gold Bay for the entire three months. They had been managing well with just her name and picture, but they couldn't afford to let the story get stale, so it was time to turn the volume up a notch. He needed to deliver the goods, and in this case, that meant newswire shots of the happy couple gazing lovingly at each other.

Molly reached up, patted the side of her head, then made a disgusted face.

“What's wrong?” Jake asked.

“They put so much hair spray on me that my head crunches when I touch it,” she said. “I feel like a beetle.”

“You look great,” Tom assured her. “Just remember the message. What's the message?”

Molly sighed. “Jake Berenger is a Family Man. Jake is a more stable, more reliable person because of my steadfast devotion, and he only needed the Love of a Good Woman to convince him to settle down and abandon his wild ways.”

“Good,” Tom said, nodding approvingly.

“And Berenger Corporation is now a safe investment risk.”

“Bad,” said Tom, recoiling. “Sweetheart, I know that you're just kidding around, and that you won't actually say that last part, right?”

Molly chuckled. “Buy Berenger stock today!” she proclaimed. “Buy low, sell high!”

“Jesus,” Tom said. “I've created a monster.”

“I see that you've relocated your sense of humor,” Jake said to Molly. He wasn't amused. He was about to put his life into Molly Shaw's hands, and that kind of vulnerability did not sit well with him.

“And the stage direction?” Tom asked.

Molly stood up, smoothing her skirt. She smiled at Jake. “Adoring looks,” she said, demonstrating one that was so syrupy that it made Jake feel sticky by association. “Loving pride. Hold Jake's hand whenever possible.”

“That's right, babe. Think Nancy Reagan with Ronnie. Jake, you already know what to do.” Tom checked his watch. “All right, kids. It's quarter to nine—time to roll this film.”

He started toward the elevator. Molly was about to follow, but Jake caught her arm.

She looked inquiringly at him. “What?”

“Something important. Give me your left hand.”

He reached into his tuxedo jacket pocket, pulled out a ring, and slipped it onto her finger.

“Oh,” Molly said, staring at the stone. “That's huge. It's not…is it…?”

“Real? Yes. It's a five-carat, d-flawless diamond. If the Berenger stock hits twenty by April first, it's yours to keep. You can consider it a thank-you gift for a job well done.”
And a bribe to make it worth your while to do the job well.
The value of the ring was roughly equal to the payment that he had offered when he first proposed his idea.