Enchanted Heart (19 page)

With Viv though, he didn't get that pressure in his chest whenever a woman got too close. If anything, he wanted to get closer to Viv. But she held him at bay.

She'd agreed to the business partnership because it served her purpose. Lance wondered how it might serve his purpose to get her to change her mind about him.

Yeah, he was a trust-fund baby. But there was more to him than clothes, fast cars and good times. And he knew just how to take that first step to prove it to Viv. He needed to clean up a mess he'd made more than ten years ago. He'd let Gayla just leave. He'd tried to find her then, but the resources available to him at seventeen, weren't the ones he had today.

His first step toward being a true grown-up would be to find his wife and get their marriage situation untangled.

On the cell, he called his buddy Henderson Foster and asked for an appointment.

“If you can swing by now, that would be great,” Henderson said. “I'm headed to Carolina for a couple of days. Taking some much needed R and R.”

Fifteen minutes later, Lance faced the private investigator.

Henderson adhered to confidentiality rules and strictly abided by them. That's what Lance was counting on.

“You're in an interesting line of work,” he said. “With the dirt on everybody, you'd be in a remarkable position to take advantage of some opportunities.”

“I do my job and go home, Lance. You know that. I leave the plotting to the people who are skilled at it.”

He didn't say—and didn't have to—that Virginia and Jimmy Heart were two of the world's all-time plotters.

“What's on your mind, Lance? I know you didn't come over here just to shoot the breeze.”

Lance lounged against the door. Though the picture of unruffled optimism, he felt anything but that. “I need your help. And your discretion.”

Henderson reached for a notebook. “All right.”

Lance left his post at the door and reached across the desk. “No notes yet. And this isn't to be billed to Heart Federated. This is private. Personal.”

The hinges of his chair squeaked when Henderson leaned back and settled his hands over his stomach, the beginning of a paunch. “All right. What's up?”

“I need to tell you a story about a kid who fell in love.”

Thirty minutes later when Lance finished, Henderson raised an eyebrow. “And you want me to find this woman. This Gayla.”

“Yes.”

“Is it okay if I take some notes now?”

Lance nodded. He spelled her name and gave the private detective the last address he had for the girl he'd married. “I doubt if she's still there. It was an apartment we'd rented, but there may be a paper trail.”

“I know how to do my job, Lance.”

“Sorry.”

“And after I find her, what do you want me to do?”

“Just let me know where she is. I'll pick up from there.”

The PI shrugged. “All right. By any chance do you have her Social Security number?”

He closed his eyes, trying to remember. Lance frowned. “No. I don't think so. I don't even know where the marriage license is. Gayla might have it. I think she put it in a scrapbook. Would it be on that?”

“Nope. At least not in Hampton. I don't know about other jurisdictions. Where'd you get married?”

“Across the border. We went to Mexico. I told my mom it was a school trip over the weekend.”

Henderson pursed his lips. The disapproving look he sent Lance's way was just another slash on the everybody-beat-up-on-Lance scorecard. “And knowing Bev, she signed something you shoved at her without even reading it.”

Lance cleared his throat. “Something like that.”

Shaking his head, the PI rose. “By the way, how is your mother?”

Lance filled him in on a few details. They didn't talk often, but Lance kept up on her well-being in Florida.

“Well, don't worry. I'll find your wife and you'll both live happily ever after.”

“God, I hope not,” Lance muttered.

But the thought stayed with him. Lance hadn't taken the time to sort through his feelings in all these years without Gayla. He'd been madly in love with her. They couldn't wait to begin their lives together. When she'd left him, he'd been crushed, decimated—unable to think or breathe or eat.

He'd sworn off love and women. The former stuck, the latter he'd returned to with a hunger that had yet to be satiated. Now though, he was a different man.

 

 

“Why did you call me that?” Vivienne asked Virginia Heart. “My name is la Fontaine.”

“But it used to be Jackson.”

Virginia walked deeper into Guilty Pleasures. She trailed a finger along a pashmina.

“I don't know what game you're playing with my grandson, Miss Jackson, but I don't like it. Not one bit.”

Vivienne tried to hold on to her temper, and she tried to tamp down the fear that clawed at her throat, the fear threatening to suffocate her in its intensity. She hadn't used her real name since . . . not since the days before the trial. A long time ago.

But apparently not so long ago that Virginia Heart hadn't dug up the truth.

“Are you here to revoke the financing package for Guilty Pleasures?”

Virginia smiled, and Vivienne was reminded of a predator about to attack: The second before the kill was a fleeting moment of rapture.

Virginia stopped at a display of peekaboo panties. “Disgusting.”

“Some people like them.”

“Do tell.”

Vivienne wanted to scream. Virginia Heart was toying with her and they both knew it.

“I know all about your situation.”

“Then you know how important this expansion is to the continued success of Guilty Pleasures.”

“I'm not talking about this shop,” Virginia said. “I'm talking about that guilty plea you made. The name Dean Khan rings a few bells, doesn't it?”

This time, Vivienne did blanch. And she reached out a hand, latching on to a bin of discontinued panties to steady herself.

“What do you want, Mrs. Heart?”

16

O
n the way to Guilty Pleasures Lance saw a sign for an open house at a town home. He wasn't enamored with the location, but he loved the look of the house, a cross between a New York brownstone and some of the restored homes in New Orleans. Since he spent most of his time in Norfolk and Virginia Beach, it made sense that he should live over here rather than racking up so many miles on the Jag and the truck going back and forth to the Peninsula. The town home's on-street parking was not acceptable, either. But he wanted to see the house, so he parked at the curb and took the steps two at a time.

“Hello?” he said through a half-screen door.

“Come on in. It's open,” a woman called from within.

He pushed the door open and walked into his dream house. In the foyer, a highly polished curving cherry banister led to the upper level. The floor held an intricately designed tile that even Lance couldn't identify. Fresh-cut flowers adorned a low table.

“Good afternoon. I'm Michaela.”

A woman of about forty-five approached. She looked like a real estate agent, pretty, perky and ready to do a deal.

He introduced himself and noted with appreciation that though she was older, she was well put together. Very, very well, in an athletic, tennis at eight with a tee time at three, maintained look. The tan was just golden enough to let Lance know it came naturally, not from a tanning booth or salon. Her blue eyes sparkled.

“Heart,” she said, assessing him shrewdly. “Might that be the Hearts of the former department stores here?”

“The same.”

He watched the Realtor's smile grow brighter as she calculated just what a commission from a Heart intent on buying might mean for her bottom line. He gave her one of his best smiles.

“You're looking for something for yourself or for a family?”

“Just me,” he said, but he wondered what Viv might think of this place. He glanced at, then ran his hands over the smooth surface of a cherry writing desk.

“Well, this would be just darling for one. Let me show you around.”

The house had three bedrooms, three full baths and a half bath on the first floor. The great room lived up to the word the way many similarly named rooms didn't. A stone hearth took up the entire expanse of one wall. The kitchen, a gourmet's delight, came equipped with the latest technology, two Sub-Zero refrigerators and Corian countertops.

Out back, though small, the yard had been converted into a private oasis, including a fountain and benches.

“It's beautiful,” Lance told Michaela.

“That it is. And some of the furniture conveys. I noticed you admiring that antique desk in the foyer.”

Something about it reminded Lance of when he was a child and he'd go to the Heart office to play department store owner. At one point he'd harbored dreams of being in charge of one of the Heart stores, then working his way up the ladder until he was named chairman of the board. His childish fantasies eventually dissolved, trampled by Cole's reality. Not only did Cole aspire to the same thing, he did something about attaining it. While Lance . . . well, somewhere along the way Lance got sidetracked. He gave up his seat on the mogul express and took the local train, hopping off at every pretty bit of scenery on the route.

“I was wondering,” he said, “do you have something just like this except not here? I need garage space and I'd like to be a little closer to the water.”

“As a matter of fact, I do. It's larger, too. Probably more suitable to a man of your . . . stature.”

She was older, but definitely hip to him. Lance smiled.

“If you'd like we can go see it right after I finish up here.”

Lance took a look at his watch, today a Rolex that went well with the casual elegance of his tailored slacks and slate shirt. “I was on my way someplace when I saw your sign. How about we make an appointment for tomorrow? Maybe we can see a couple of different places, and I might bring a friend along.”

“Perfect!” Michaela chirped.

 

 

While Lance was filling out a visitor card at the town house just a few blocks away from Guilty Pleasures, Vivienne was wondering if not just her expansion financing, but her whole world was about to crumble. If Virginia Heart knew about Dean Khan, she had done some checking of more than the cursory variety. While Viv hadn't gone to extreme measures to conceal her former identity, she knew it would take some serious background checking to associate her with Dean Khan.

“What do I want?” Virginia answered her. “I want you to leave my grandson alone.”

“I'm not doing anything to him. Or with him,” Viv added.

Virginia arched one of those perfectly plucked brows. “You and I both know that's not true. I know my grandson. And I'm sure he's taken advantage of your, er, assets, Miss Jackson.”

“My name is la Fontaine.” She ignored the other dig.

“So you would have everyone believe. There are laws against misrepresentation, Miss Jackson. Are you familiar with them?”

Viv nodded.

Virginia's smile was cold, like her heart. “I thought you might be.” She meandered over to a short rack of pink-and-cream camisoles. “These are nice. Not my style, of course, but nice nevertheless. If you go for that sort of material. Made in Taiwan?”

“What is it that you want from me?”

“Forget about Lance.” Virginia said again as she snapped open her handbag and pulled out a wallet that Viv tagged as alligator. A fountain pen came next. Then, Virginia stood poised in front of Viv, checkbook open.

“I'm willing to offer you fifty thousand dollars to forget this whole investment game you're playing with Lance.”

Viv looked at the checkbook. She knew enough about the Hearts to know that Virginia's check would be good. And if fifty thousand dollars was the opening volley, the real amount could very likely triple or quadruple that sum. She could do a lot with that kind of cash. Some of her old ways tried to kick in.

Take the cash,
a part of her urged. But Viv had come a long way since the days when she didn't think beyond either the moment or immediate gratification. The woman she was then bore no resemblance to the one she was today. She'd changed a lot of things, including her name. The fact that she had to beat down those old urges didn't sit well with Viv. You could take the girl out of the gutter . . .

“Would you like this made out to the la Fontaine name or your real one?”

Something cold and tight coalesced in Viv. Then resolve settled around her like the warmth from a first-quality mink. She might still struggle with the issue of men, but on this she could be certain.

“I don't want your money, Mrs. Heart. And I think it's time you left . . . before one of us says or does something we'll live to regret.”

“Are you threatening me, girl?”

 

 

Lance was a block away from Guilty Pleasures when his cell phone rang. He spied a parking spot, but a Jeep Cherokee snagged it before he got there.

“Damn.” There was another one across the street.

The phone rang again.

He pressed the speaker function. “Talk to me.”

“Lance. It's Henderson. I have some news for you.”

“That was fast.”

“I don't think you're going to like it.”

Wasn't there a song from a Broadway show along the lines of “don't nobody bring me no bad news”? This seemed to be Lance's month for negative news.

“This, I must admit, is the easiest job I've ever done for you. The information you gave me, though dated, turned out to be very productive. But it sounds like you're on a cell, so how about if I fax this to you.”

“Sounds good. I'll read it when I get home. Send me your bill.”

“On that, my man, you don't have to worry.”

Lance found a parking spot behind the building directly across the street from Guilty Pleasures. He locked the Jag and headed toward the sidewalk. That's when he noticed the Bentley illegally parked on an adjacent side street right next to a no-parking sign.

“Shit.”

“What was that?” Henderson asked.

“Nothing. I gotta jet. Send the fax to the house.”

His mind on the Bentley and what it represented, he flipped the phone shut and jammed it in his pocket. Two people he definitely didn't want comparing notes: Vivienne and his grandmother. Virginia's presence at Guilty Pleasures could only mean trouble.

 

 

Inside the store, the tension escalated between the two women, opposing forces with neither willing to give an inch.

“I'm not your girl. And you have a lot of nerve walking into my place of business trying to buy me off as if I'm pushing piece goods from the trunk of a beat-up Chevy.”

Virginia smirked. “It sounds like you have some experience in that area.”

Viv's fists clenched. She longed to give this bitch what for.

“You think you know Lance,” Virginia said, “but let me tell you, the boy has a very short attention span. You, Miss Jackson, are nothing more than the flavor of the week. You'd be better off taking my offer. Trust me on that. And don't let pride get in the way.”

“It's not a pride thing, Mrs. Heart. I wouldn't expect you to understand that. And you don't frighten me. Your threats are hollow and your offer is an insult. If you were really concerned about Lance's well-being, you'd have gone about this in an entirely different manner. So, the question is, what are
you
afraid of?”

Virginia laughed. “Not a thing, Miss Jackson. What you have between your legs may blind my grandson to your lies, but it doesn't do a damn thing for me.”

That's what Lance heard when he pushed the door open.

“Hello, Grandmother.”

As one, the two women turned to face Lance. Virginia, looking amused, slipped her checkbook back into her purse.

She eyed Viv with a small, knowing smile. “Hello, dear.” Virginia leaned forward for his kiss, which he obligingly placed on her cheek.

Watching the display of respect, Viv wondered if this man had played her. “How long were you standing there?”

Lance approached. Carefully. Viv looked as if she might spit nails and tacks at him. And his grandmother had that soap opera diva-doing-wrong look about her that never boded well for anyone, especially him. He leaned forward to kiss Viv on the cheek, but she stepped away from him, her gaze locked on Virginia.

“I just walked in,” he said. “I saw your car outside,” he told Virginia. “I didn't know you shopped here. And who is Miss Jackson?” The latter was directed at Viv.

“Your friend and I were just having a little chat. Woman to woman. Right, Vivienne?”

“Yes, and your grandmother was just leaving.”

“You keep what I said in mind, Miss . . . la Fontaine. I'll stop by again to get your”—she glanced at a bin of padded bras in jewel tones—“to get your decision on the best level of support.”

With a little chuckle at her own joke, Virginia tapped Lance's sleeve. “Walk me to the car.”

Uncertain about what was going on, but sure he was missing an entire level of communication, Lance nodded. “I'll be right back, Viv.”

Outside, Virginia wasted no time letting him know what she thought about Vivienne. “You could do much better, Lance. She's a model for goodness' sakes. Did you see those gigantic photos of her all over the place? You'd think she could remember what she looked like.”

Lance happened to like the blown-up images of Viv in the shop. But it wasn't aesthetics that he needed to discuss with his grandmother. He needed to know what she was up to.

“You shop at Guilty Pleasures?”

He waited for a cab to pass by the side street, then with a hand at her elbow Lance guided Virginia to the car idling just a few feet away. The chauffeur stepped out of the vehicle.

“I hope you haven't let your physical urges get you in an expensive bind.”

“You're the one who told me to invest in something. I believe in Vivienne's vision for this store.”

“Her vision?” Virginia looked up at the tall, handsome man. “You're deluding yourself, Lance, if you think there's any true potential here—the exception, of course, being wear and tear on your bed. That's something you unfortunately inherited so there's little that can be done about
those
urges. You could try to keep your pants zipped.”

“Grandmother.”

“Don't ‘Grandmother' me. I know you, Lance. And I know her type,” she said, jerking her head back toward Guilty Pleasures.

He hated when she talked like this. Yet he'd never been able to come up with a respectful response that didn't set her off on a half-hour harangue about irresponsible Heart men. Sometimes it was easier to just take the short scolding. That's where he and Cole differed. Cole would just out and out tell her to mind her own freaking business.

Lance wasn't Cole though. He might be twenty-eight years old, but he had no intention of getting slapped by a woman who looked like, but was hardly, a little old lady. Lance knew the image was a facade.

He waved the driver away and opened the door for her. Virginia slipped into the car in one practiced move. She'd been riding in style for so many years now, the motion was more reflex than conscious thought. She powered down the window.

“See your uncle Jimmy,” she told Lance. “He has a list of approved businesses and ventures that will yield good return. Much better than a little underwear store.” She waved through the front window of the car. Lance stepped aside and watched her leave.