Maxine (30 page)

Sinking onto the sofa, Lance said, “It’s a funeral.”

“Yes, for Bill Morrison.”

They flashed a picture of Bill Morrison on the screen. “That’s the old guy she had lunch with the other day. Do you know him?”

“No, I never met him. Ron said he was one of the trustees.”

Suddenly Cara stood in front of the camera, giving a brief statement about her friendship with the dead guy. She was looking good these days. The black was gone from her hair, which she wore in a new, shorter style. She looked better than he remembered.

Lance glanced at Ian, who stood at the end of the sofa. “Who’s the guy with her?”

Ian said the name slowly. “Nick Donatelli.”

Lance grinned. So that’s her lover, the man he shot. “Looks like someone used his face for a punching bag. What in the hell does she see in a guy like him?”

The reporters moved on to something else and Lance was left wondering if Cara intended to marry the guy when she got her divorce.

Ian turned the television off. “I can’t believe she’s flaunting her lover like that. She’s still a married woman.”

“Yes, she is,” said Lance. She’d die that way, too.

Still married.

Chapter Seventeen

N
ick talked with Aunt Sophia on the phone for several minutes. She called often, checking up on him, letting him know how much she cared.

“I love you, Nicky,” she said.

“Yeah, I love you, too. I’ll talk to you again in a few days.”

Nick hung up the phone. As a kid, he would have given anything to hear someone say those words to him. Until he ran away to Aunt Sophia’s house, he’d never heard them. Until then, Nick thought he was unlovable, a worthless kid who was so bad his own mother couldn’t stand to look at him without a drink to deaden the pain. All she’d ever done was drink and smoke and knock him around.

The cut over his eye wasn’t from a school fight, as he’d told Cara. His mother had hit him with a bottle because he’d accidentally spilled her scotch. He saw a doctor two days later, but the school nurse took him, not his mother. His mother had been too drunk to notice she’d split his eyebrow right down to the bone. Nick was nine and the foster home they’d sent him to was his third. If they’d left him there, he wouldn’t have run away.

“Nick,” called Cara. “Where are you?”

“In the study.”

She walked in and smiled. “Would you like to come to the office with me tomorrow morning? I need to be there at nine, but I won’t be there long.”

“Yeah, sure. I have to meet the contractor at a building about a block from there at ten, so that’ll work out good.”

She leaned over the desk and whispered, “I know something else that works out good.”

“Oh, yeah?” he teased, knowing exactly what she was talking about. He was so wiped out the last night they spent together, he fell asleep, but there was no chance of that happening tonight.

She pointed to him and to herself. “And this time I want more than a snuggle before you fall asleep. This time I want...” She stood up straight and gave him a cute little come-on smile. “Well, you’re a big boy. You can figure it out.”

“Damn right.” He moved quickly around the desk and caught her near the door. She giggled and pulled away. Running toward the stairs, she looked over her shoulder and tripped on the step. He grabbed her around the waist to keep her from falling. They were in Nick’s room in seconds, ripping at their clothes, their hands and lips on each other.

Their need was frantic, almost primal, as he rubbed and sucked and kissed and made love to her, giving her the love she wanted and needed so much. He didn’t say the words, but she knew he loved her. He brought her to a quick, but amazingly satisfying climax, and she cried as his seed spilled inside her. His wife wouldn’t give him a baby, but she would. She wanted his children.

They spent the night together in Cara’s grandfather’s bed, their naked bodies snuggled together, her pale arms and legs intertwined with his darker, hairy ones.

<>

Cara and Nick arrived at the office at nine the next morning. Marge said, “Miss Andrews, I didn’t expect you this morning.”

“Marge, please call a locksmith. I’d like the locks changed on the offices today.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Do you know anything about Ron’s computer? Does he have a list of passwords somewhere?”

Marge’s eyes flicked between Cara and Nick. “I have that list.”

“Do you know how to change the passwords?”

Marge hesitated, questioning with her eyes. “Is he leaving today?”

Cara nodded.

“I see.” Marge swallowed hard. “Bart knows more about Ron’s computer than I do. Perhaps you should speak with him.”

Nick wandered through the empty rooms on that floor while Cara walked back to Bart’s office. “Bart, would you have Ron show you which programs he uses on his computer and how to get into them? I want all his passwords changed this morning.”

“Yes, of course.”

“I hate to add to your workload, but I may need some help with Ron’s work for awhile, until I get someone else in here.”

“Do you have someone in mind?”

“I offered the job to Boyd Hutchinson, but he hasn’t given me an answer yet.”

“He’d do a great job,” said Bart. “He’d listen, too, which is something Ron has never been good at. I’ll help in any way I can. I have an assistant to help with the accounting and I can hire another if necessary. I’d like to learn more about the investment part of the estate.”

“Maybe I should have offered the job to you, Bart.”

“Maybe someday you will.”

She nodded. “Maybe I will.”

Marge buzzed Bart on the intercom. “Please tell Miss Andrews that Mr. Holcomb has arrived.”

Bart handed Cara the envelope with Ron’s check, and she walked back to the reception area to get the letter from her purse. She took a deep breath and tapped on Ron’s private office door.

“What is it, Marge?” he called. He sounded irritated already, but not as irritated as he’d be in a few minutes.

Cara opened the door and walked in. As she pulled the door closed behind her, Ron asked, “What are you doing here?” He looked down and dug through his desk drawer.

“I didn’t see you at Bill’s funeral yesterday.”

Without looking up, Ron said, “I had another commitment.”

“On the golf course?”

He continued to rummage through his desk drawers, telling her without words that he had better things to do than to waste time with her. Finally, he pulled out some papers and looked up at her. “What do you want today?” His voice was filled with irritation and sarcasm.

“Ron, I’ve decided to go in a different direction with the management of the estate.”

Confusion knit his eyebrows together, then his mouth opened and closed much like a fish. “Are you asking for my resignation
now
?”

“It was my plan to learn from you and then ask for your resignation, but you obviously have no intention of teaching me anything. I find it impossible to work with a man who offers virtually no cooperation, who argues with my decisions, who fights me every step of the way. You seem to have forgotten who
owns
this estate.” She handed him the letter and stood quietly while he read it.

He rose out of his chair. “You’re
firing
me?” he said in astonishment.

“Against my better judgment, I had Bart include severance pay in your check.” Cara put the envelope on the desk and Ron stared at it, his face a mask of shock and disbelief.

“Show Bart which programs you use on your computer, tell him your passwords and whatever else he needs to know, then pack your personal things and go. Your services are no longer required. If you have anything at home that belongs to the estate or to the RASH Corporation, I expect it to be returned by the end of the day.”

Ron gaped at her. “Have you lost your mind? You can’t run this office without me.”

Did he really think he was indispensable? “I’ve offered your job to someone else, someone who shares my philosophy about social responsibility. If he doesn’t take it, I’ll find someone else, someone who will work
with
me, not
against
me.”

She opened the door. “Marge, would you tell Bart we’re ready for him now.”

Ron still looked stunned when Bart came in, but Cara remembered Gerry’s advice.
Don’t give him time to do any damage.

Standing in Ron’s office door, Cara watched Bart ask about the computer programs and files. She stepped out of the office and pulled the door closed.

Nick’s eyebrows lifted. “So, Maxine, how’d it go?”

She sighed. “He thinks I can’t run the office without him.”

He laughed a little. “Yeah, sure.”

Nick and Cara stayed in the office until Bart had all the information he needed and Ron packed his personal belongings. She should have fired Ron that day he didn’t show up at her house, the day he thumbed his nose at her. She’d been angry then, but she didn’t have the confidence she needed to take control. Now she did.

Although she had more responsibility now than ever before, Cara felt a weight lift off her shoulders when Ron Holcomb walked out the door. She was no longer afraid of making mistakes. So what if she messed up? She’d learn from her mistakes and move on. Keeping Ron Holcomb would have been the biggest mistake of all.

Cara and Nick walked down the block to the other building to meet with the contractor, Mark Anderson. The man stood in the cavernous lobby puffing away on his stinky cigar. Cara glared at him. “Mr. Anderson, please leave your cigar outside while we talk.”

Without a word, the man walked outside and put his cigar in the ashtray beside the door. When he came back inside, Nick said, “Show me the plans,” and Anderson spread them on the mahogany reception desk.

Cara peered over Nick’s shoulder and he pointed to the sketch of the new façade. “What’s wrong with the way it looks now?”

Anderson shrugged. “I’m just following the plan.”

Nick walked outside and looked up. The building was about eight stories tall, with large tan bricks covering the front. Cream stone arches accented the windows. It looked to be in good shape, attractive and clean. He walked inside and asked Anderson, “Does the building meet code as it is?”

Anderson shrugged. “You’d have to ask Cal. I’m the contractor, not the designer.”

They stood in the lobby and talked about the work Anderson’s crew had done so far. Nick got the impression they’d just started a few days ago. “Was the building empty when you bought it?”

“No, the tenants left last week.”

“Why couldn’t you have done one floor at a time, so the rents would still be coming in?”

“It’s easier to do the work if the building is empty.”

“Of course it is,” Nick muttered under his breath. They didn’t give a shit if they lost money, because it wasn’t their money they were losing.

They walked through the building, beginning with the top floor, and worked their way down to the underground parking garage.

“This building doesn’t need renovation. It needs new floors, paint, spruce up the lobby, but it sure as hell doesn’t need a complete makeover,” said Nick. “What other projects are you working on for RASH, or is this it?”

“We’re supposed to start work on the new condos next week. The demolition crew starts Monday.”

Cara waved her hand. “Oh, no. You’re not touching those buildings.”

Nick talked with Anderson about other crews and subcontractors he had scheduled and then said, “You’re finished here, fired. Leave the key.”

As Anderson reached in his pocket, Cara said, “If you have anything that belongs to RASH, records or keys or property, you are to return it to the Andrews offices today.”

Without another word, Anderson threw the key on the desk and walked out.

Nick rolled up the plans, locked the door, and they walked back to the Andrews Building, where the architect, Cal Richards, had an office. Nick shared a long look with Cara and tapped on the glass door.

Richards jumped off his stool, wiped the shocked look off his face, and opened the door. “Well, Mr. Donatelli and Miss Andrews. How nice of you to stop by.”

Cara looked around the office, wondering what this man paid for rent on this office. It had a window wall with his easel sitting in front of it, a beautiful desk in the center, and a nice sitting area on the side. Expensive furniture, no receptionist or secretary. This was a one-man operation, and RASH, she assumed, was his entire business.