The Doll Brokers (14 page)

“Spain?” His heart gave an odd thudding sensation against his rib cage.

“Seve Marques.”

“Weaseled old guy with a lot of hands?”

“That's right, at least the weaseled part. I never became acquainted with his hands.”

“Uh … we met him over lunch. He seemed to like the doll.” Enough to want to knock her off, Jonathan thought.

“What kind of an order did he give us?”

“I'm not sure of the numbers. I spent a week listening to them, Mom, and they all run together in my head. A hundred thousand here, fifty thousand there.” He was aiding and abetting Ann in lying to his mother, he thought.

Evading.
They were evading her.

Felicia sighed. “It was bad.”

“I didn't say that. Ann didn't seem to think so. Seriously, Mom, you've got to get the exact figures from her. She was doing all the talking and negotiating. It went right over my head.”

“Which brings us back to why you went in the first place.”

“I like Europe!” He almost shouted it this time.

“You told me you had your fill, after living there.”

“I changed my mind about it.”

“Yes, dear.” She paused. “You know, I always find out everything anyway, so you might as well fess up. Of course, in this instance, I'm running out of time.”

“Damn it, Mom—”

“Good night.”

The phone clicked. As Jonathan stood staring at it in his hand, a thudding fist hit his door. There were Third World countries who enjoyed more peace than he was having tonight. He dropped the phone and went to yank the door open. “What?” he demanded.

It was Patrick. And he was sodden. “I wanna know what's going on with you.”

“Ah, hell,” Jonathan muttered.

His brother pushed past him, stumbling a little. Jonathan winced as Pat dropped onto the sofa, legs akimbo.

“By all means,” Jonathan said. “Come on in.”

“You went to Europe.”

“Yeah, and I've already heard from Mom about it.” He closed the door. “So what?”

Patrick lurched up, then stood swaying. “You went to Europe with
her
.”

Jonathan decided not to address that. “What are you doing on this side of the river at this hour?”

“Where else would I be?”

“Home? Last time I checked, you had a wife and kids.”

“Worked late.” Patrick veered toward the kitchen area.

Jonathan went after him. “It's eleven o'clock, pal.”

“I was waiting for you to get home.” He yanked open the refrigerator door, then some cupboards. “Don't you have anything to drink besides beer?”

“It's what I like.”

“You have the taste of a peon.”

“Yeah, but I can afford it.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” He turned and looked Jonathan's way, his jaw jutting. “I can't afford what I like?”

“I don't know. Can you?” Jonathan rubbed his eyes. “Pat, if you came here looking for a fight, I've got to tell you, I'm not going to join in.”

“You went to Europe. With
her
,” Patrick said again.

He still wasn't going to rise to the accusation. He turned his back to Patrick and moved into the living room, his brother following him.

“Have you forgotten what she did?” Pat demanded.

“No.” Jonathan sank down in one of the chairs.

“Are you screwing her?”

He felt all his facial skin pull tight. “Watch yourself there.”

“You are, aren't you? Wasn't one brother enough?”

Jonathan paused, stroking his jaw. His mind rolled back, over bumpy memories of that last vacation they'd all taken together on Long Island, to the night in the boat, the night Matt had died. Matt had been standing at the windshield, the wind flattening his dark hair, whipping the fringes of it behind his head. Laughing, Jonathan thought, with every bit of glorious exhilaration in his young soul.

“She's going to marry me!” Matt had shouted. His voice had belted out over the growl of the engine. The wind had whipped it and carried it, pitching it and turning it until it had sounded almost manic.

That's not true, Jonathan had thought. She told me she wouldn't. But before he could answer, Patrick had shouted back.

“Mattie, wise up! We both fucked her! She's making the rounds, trying to wrap one of us around her finger!”

Jonathan had thought, wait, wait, no, not true. That family vacation at Felicia's request had been the most extended time they'd all spent with Ann. He couldn't deny that for a moment during their beach walk, he had felt an unmistakable attraction toward her, but it had never been acted upon.

The rush of these old memories opened a wound, and Jonathan felt the pain of Matt's loss. He turned to Patrick and told him to take his sorry ass home.

His brother gave a guttural sound and lunged, gripping Jonathan's sweater in his palms and trying to lift him out of the chair. Jonathan wrapped both his hands around Patrick's wrists, twisted, breaking his hold. “Back off,” he said, too quietly.

“I want to know what happened in Europe. Irene says you've been stuck up Ann's ass for weeks.”

Jonathan stared at him. Patrick's eyes were bloodshot, runny. His complexion was splotched.
He had lied to Mattie.
Matt had died with that twisted untruth in his mind.

He let one of Patrick's wrists go. He brought his fist back and fired it hard into his brother's gut. Air shot out of him. He looked stunned.

“Get out of here,” Jonathan said. “And we'll forget tonight ever happened.”

Patrick swung back.

As fights went, it was pathetic. Jonathan thought about that as he shifted cleanly to one side and avoided his brother's fist. Then he lowered his head and came up out of the chair, driving into him, knocking him flat. Onto the coffee table. The glass top was upended but somehow didn't break

They rolled. Patrick swung feebly. Jonathan pinned him to the floor.

Now he was fighting over her, he thought. He was aiding and abetting her one minute, throwing his fists around the next. With his own brother.

But Patrick had lied to Mattie.

“You never had her.” He used his weight to hold his brother down.

“I didn't want her!”

“You lied to him, damn it! You broke his heart on the last night of his life!”

“I was trying to save him! I was trying to stop him from being a fool! Nothing else would have woken him up!”

It would be too easy to slam his fist down into that florid, drunken face, Jonathan thought. Instead, he deliberately eased his weight off his brother.

Patrick grunted and rolled onto his stomach. Then he heaved.

“Ah, man,” Jonathan said. “Good show.”

Patrick scrubbed his hands over his face. “Don't get tangled up with her, Jon. Don't let her get to you, too.”

“Nobody's tangled up with anybody, you idiot.” He got to his feet and went to get a towel. But the words he'd just spoken rang hollow in his ears.

T
he days between Europe and visiting the American retailers passed like dominoes falling, one onto another. There were details to take care of, logistics to manage. The rough draft of the TV commercial had to be dubbed into each country's language—and the balance of international territories to be contacted. Ann needed to fill the holes left by Spain's lack of support and Germany's meager order. In between, she saw her doctor for a prescription antacid that put the Maalox to shame.

Jonathan came by the office twice, but lavished most of his attention on her secretary. Ann couldn't quite figure out the purpose of his visits, but she didn't have time to dwell on it. She barely saw Patrick at all, and
that
worried her. As for Felicia, she was doing the best she could to dodge her, making only short visits to her home. She refused to burden the woman with premature news, hoping she would soon be able to paint a prettier picture.

Before Ann knew it, her travel date had arrived.

She was in her bedroom, folding a sweater into a suitcase, when Jonathan's knock came at the door. She finished what she was doing, smoothing a hand over the soft cashmere, and picked up her coffee mug before she went to answer it. She grinned a little when a second thumping sounded, harder and more impatient than the first. She was deliberately goading him,
forcing him to wait for her. Finally, she pulled open the door and ushered him in.

Instead of saying hello, Jonathan nodded at the coffee in her hand. “That stuff can't be helping your stomach.”

“Neither do you, but I can't seem to kick you out of my life, either.”

He stepped past her into the living room. Looking pretty damned good, she thought.

“Why aren't you ready?” he asked.

“I am.”

“You're barefoot.” He stared at her feet as though they were an affront.

“I can fix that. Will boots bother your sensibilities, or should I wear pumps?”

Jonathan had an unnerving flash of her in black leather. A lot of it. Not just boots, but head to toe with strategic gaps. And all that blond hair. What was he thinking?
Shit.
This trip was definitely a bad idea. How could he explain it to his mother and brother, let alone to himself? But he couldn't bow out now.

“I need to use your bathroom,” he said suddenly.

Ann frowned. “Down the hall. The only door to your left.”

He found his way, closing the door behind him. He looked around. There was a rug on the floor, a geometric pattern of ultramarine and turquoise and sea-green. The walls wore a delicate tint of sky blue. There was a sunken tub of warm ivory, surrounded by urns of dried lavender and grasses, wire baskets of thick rolled towels, a pedestal sink matching the ivory of the tub … and a wine bucket perched on the tub ledge. With two glasses.

Jonathan returned to the front door where Ann was waiting with her suitcase and a garment bag. Her boots were brown leather, not black; her skirt was long, calf-length, but slit up the front. Nice, he thought, but instead of complimenting her, he brusquely picked up her suitcase and barked, “Let's go.”

“You know, you don't have to make this trip. No one is holding a gun to your head.”

“Keep trying to talk me out of it and I'll start questioning your motives again.”

Her stomach jumped. Ann pressed a hand to it. “Is that your way of telling me that I am beginning to earn your trust?””

Damned good question.
“I've got a cab waiting, Ann. Can we get to it before it costs me my entire portfolio?”

“I guess you don't have much of a portfolio, then,” she said lightly, and she plucked her keys off the entry table.

“I, at least, can buy furniture.”

“So can I.”

“Your living room is empty.”

“I want perfect pieces.” She stepped out into the hall after him and locked the door.

“There are furniture stores all over the city.”

“I said perfect. Not adequate. Each piece has to speak to me. That takes time.”

“Yeah, well, if you're planning another shopping spree, let me know so I can stay home.”

Ann bit her lip against laughing. Then she almost stoked the furnace of their old feud when they got into the cab. “Have you seen Patrick lately?” she asked.

His response was quick and too harsh. “Why?”

She turned her head to look at him as she buckled her seat belt. “He's been laying low.”

“Not low enough.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing.” He changed the subject. “What's the purpose of this trip, by the way? Same as Europe?”

“More or less. Think of Toys ‘R' Us and Walmart as small countries.”

“Are you still avoiding Felicia?”

“I told her the truth about Spain this morning. But I caught a real coup with Australia to make up some of the difference.”

He looked at her sharply. “Australia? You're selling dolls to Australia and we didn't get to go there? You made me go to
London
instead?”

“I like London. I'm afraid of kangaroos.”

He poked a finger in her direction. “You're afraid of
flying.
It has nothing to do with wildlife, and everything to do with twenty-one hours in the air. Ah, man.
Australia.
”

“Stop complaining. I'm about to knock your socks off with Bentonville.”

“Where the hell is Bentonville?”

“Arkansas.”

“Can't hardly wait.”

By the time they got to the airport, she thought he was his irritating self again. Then they ran into Alvin Pelletier.

They were heading up the concourse when his bellow came from behind them. Alvin's voice had a way of demanding that people stop, then salute. Ann did the first, waiting as he closed the distance between them.

“You guys running off to Vegas to get married? You sure as hell got some tongues wagging around this city.”

“We're headed for the Dominican Republic for a quickie divorce,” Ann replied. “The marriage lasted about as long as I thought it would.”

Pelletier laughed, a robust sound that drew the attention of passers-by. “That's what I said to everybody. Hell's going to freeze over before you two crawl into bed together.” His eyes went shrewd. “So where
are
you going?”

“Retailers,” Ann said. They all began walking again.

Alvin cut a glance at Jonathan. “And how do you fit in?”

“Trying to answer those rumors, Alvin?” Jonathan shrugged. “I've developed an interest in my mother's business, and particularly our doll.”

“Why?”

“Because people like you wish you had her.”

“Not me,” Pelletier said, stopping at a gate and turning to Ann. “The gamble you're taking is crazy. You can't spend five million on television advertising, hoping you'll get support from the major retailers. I hate to see you put Felicia's company under this way.”