The Beginning of Always (7 page)

Alistair was no longer mine. Perhaps we had never been each other’s and were just forced together in our small town. Still, I loathed the idea of him settling down with some vapid fool of a woman.

I shook my head and then stood up quickly to walk to my closet. Alistair deserved better than the shallow gold diggers who were probably breaking down his door, but it was his business who he mixed with. Whomever he dated, if he dated, was none of my concern. My arm shot out angrily to push aside the tiny selection hanging in my too-big closet. If Alistair wanted to dumb himself down, if he found what he was looking for in some towering model, then good for him.

Good for him.

My actions became harsher, more frenetic as I shoved every hanger in front of me from left to right and then back again. I spun around on my heel and glared at the clothing mountain sitting on my bed, mocking me with its mess, screaming that it held nothing I needed.

I snatched at a pair of jeans and yanked them on. Forget it. I was going shopping.

As I exited the taxi, I decided to myself that living in New York City definitely had its perks. After two hours of shopping my way down Fifth Avenue, I’d found a modestly priced floor-length gown that made me feel like a queen.

I paid the driver and turned around to see where I was in Midtown. The address was on Fifty-Seventh Street, a swanky thoroughfare that cut through the most expensive commercial real estate in the city. Hell, probably the country. The world. A shining tower stretched above me, and throngs of people crowded the sidewalk in front of it. Spotlights threw light back and forth, and there was a long red carpet leading up to an ornate entrance hall with a large lit sign proclaiming proudly, “New York City Community Children’s Hospital Family House.”

I sucked in a breath, readjusted my clutch under my arm, and muttered, “Well, now or never.”

My gown swished around my ankles as I clicked towards the crowd. Despite the nervous butterflies in my stomach, I threw my head back to project an air of confidence. The dress was flattering, a rich silk maroon with gorgeous draping that clung to my curves and a V-neck that exposed the right amount of sexy. The lower half of my back was bare, but a chiffon cape billowed from my shoulders and down my arms to keep it covered and modest.

It was ridiculous, walking up the red carpet with the other guests while the press yelled out and took pictures. I pushed past the crowd, the flashbulbs blinding me as I fought to get to the door to meet with my point of contact.

She wasn’t hard to miss. Her voice over the phone had been stern as she’d told me she’d be waiting for me at the front door at 5:45 sharp and I wasn’t to be late. Now a blonde woman in a perfectly tailored black suit and tall pumps stood by the door, talking to a frazzled man in a waiter’s outfit. She clutched a portfolio and an iPad against her chest, her back straight enough for a protractor to read. Bold red color lined her thin lips, which were pressed in irritation and disapproval. She was young and definitely gorgeous, in an evil European Barbie Robot kind of way.

I inched over and caught the tail end of the conversation. Her voice was laced with a strong German accent.

“—completely unacceptable, we are highly displeased with the delay, the speeches begin in forty-five minutes and—”

The woman’s attention snapped over to me. Her light eyebrows assumed a harsher angle as she gave me an expression that said, “What the hell do you want?”

I held up my NYPD press pass. The pass was overkill for this fundraiser, but now that I was faced with the Berlin Wall I was glad I’d brought it.

“Florence Reynolds,
New York Journal
,” I stated simply.

Her eyes darted between my card and my face, and she gave a short nod. She directed her attention to the unfortunate slob who appeared to be two seconds’ worth of telling off away from pissing himself. “Get it done,” she snapped with finality.

The man nodded quickly and ducked back into the building, grateful to get away.

The woman’s attention popped back to me, and I straightened.

“Hello.” European Barbie Robot extended her hand and I met it. She gripped my hand with a force that threatened to crush my bones into dust. “I am Gertrude Werner, Mr. Blair’s personal assistant.” Her sharp eyes flickered up and down my form. “I suppose that’s acceptable.”

I straightened up even more and threw my chin back a fraction, then gave her a saccharine smile.

“It’s lovely to meet you, Gertrude,” I said, using her given name. “It seems we will be working together quite closely for the next month.”

Gertrude’s lips thinned even more, if possible. We stared at each other for a second, and then she said shortly, “Walk with me. We can talk while we go to the ballroom.”

And then with a spin of her heel, she stomped over the threshold and disappeared down the hallway. I hastened to follow, cursing my own shoes. She was on taller ones—how did she walk?

I caught up and sucked in shallow breaths so as to not appear winded. Gertrude didn’t even glance back; she continued on with long strides down a plush carpet-lined hallway. It appeared to be a traditional brownstone-style lobby, but with a gleam and sparkle that only came with remodel.

Our heels clicked as we transferred from carpet to tile and at that point, Gertrude turned to me with a frown. “You look very familiar. Have we met before? Do you specialize in business news? Worked for the
Wall Street Journal
?”

“Unlikely. I’ve been stationed overseas until just recently. I’ve always been based in New York, but I’m the
Journal
’s main profiler in the Asia-Pacific region.”

“Hm.” Gertrude barely hid her snide expression.

I couldn’t care less.

We traveled the rest of the way in silence.

We finally arrived at our destination, a private elevator, and Gertrude tapped a card against the reader. The car slid down silently, and after we boarded, she hit a button and the doors closed.

As soon as we lurched up, Gertrude faced me with her hands on her hips and said, “I don’t like journalists.”

I arched an eyebrow and she took a step towards me, continuing, “This is a terrible idea and no good can come from it. Mr. Blair is far too busy as it is and doesn’t have time to play
60
Minutes
with you.”

“I assure you, I’m not here to play.” I kept my voice steady. “Your company contacted my publication for this profile, so take your grievances up with whoever decided this on your end.”

Her expression communicated that she had already taken up her grievances with someone on her end, very much so, and was searching for another outlet in me.

Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Blair Properties works within a highly competitive business environment, and Mr. Blair has the utmost respect for our clients’ privacy, as well as our own. We have neither the need nor the desire for your presence. The article would do nothing positive or constructive for the short-term or long-term goals of the company.” Gertrude spoke quickly, delivering her diatribe with crisp, bitter German-laced syllables. “If you’re hunting for a sordid tell-all, or some nasty drama, you will find yourself severely disappointed.”

I let out a loud sigh. I’d run across my fair share of employees who would try to force a complimentary fluff piece with either flattery or hostility. It seemed Gertrude was of the latter variety, although she appeared not to even enjoy the idea of the article, period.

You and me both, sister.

Then, just to mess with her, I reached into my clutch and extracted my notepad and a pen. I flipped open to a fresh page and began scribbling something down.

“What are you doing?” Her voice was harsh.

“Oh, you know, just taking notes.” I looked up with an exasperated expression. “Everything is always on the record—you know that, of course.”

Her lips thinned enough to disappear.

We mercifully reached the top floor shortly after our charming exchange. Gertrude stomped out before the doors even opened properly, and I trotted up behind, a small smile playing upon my own lips.

The top floor held a huge ballroom and must have been built with fundraisers and dinner galas in mind. A large stage dominated one side of the room, crystal chandeliers glittered above on the high ceilings, and at least forty large banquet tables were spread out in front of us.

The room was currently empty except for the staff setting up stemware and plates. Gertrude charged towards a group of waiters huddled near the kitchen door, half of whom scattered as they spotted her approach. After giving clipped directions and raising her voice, she returned to me and brusquely shoved a program in my hand.

“You are at table thirty-two,” she barked. “Mr. Blair is busy meeting with the hospital director, so you are to wait here until dinner starts. Introductions will occur after dinner.”

And before I could answer, she stormed off towards a set of panel doors, yanked them open, and disappeared.

I wandered about the edge of the room as I waited for the rest of the guests to trickle in. I nursed a glass of red wine from the bar and paced around in aimless circles before settling down at my table.

The people at my table were all random donors whose names escaped me as soon as I shook their hands. I was seated next to an embarrassingly obvious gold digger and her elderly husband. She introduced herself and spent several minutes working her massive cleavage back into her low-cut dress. The husband ogled freely.

At 6:30 sharp, the lights dimmed slightly and the hum of conversations quieted to a hush. A short, dumpy yet kind-looking man took the stage with both arms raised in greeting. Applause rang out and cheers sounded. The man was ecstatic as he climbed up to stand behind the podium, and the room gradually fell silent. The sound of his breath on the microphone echoed through the room.

“Good evening, everyone,” his fatherly voice spoke. “Welcome, welcome, welcome to the New York City Community Children’s Hospital Family House!”

Another round of applause rang, and I did my duty and joined in.

“My name is Dr. Fred Chandler, and I am the director of the NYC Community Children’s Hospital. I have to say, I am so happy you could join us tonight, and above all else, I am just utterly pleased to be able to introduce you to our brand-new family house!”

More applause.

Dr. Fred Chandler leaned into the microphone and grinned. “But I will not keep you, nor will I take credit for this wonderful home’s inception. I am about to introduce you to the amazing man and soul who was instrumental in getting this project off the ground. Everything you see here, every nail, board, and brick, was personally overseen by him to his exacting standards, all for the generous donation of giving back to the community of families who require this service so very much. This individual has been the catalyst in changing New York City real estate and shifting its streets and skyline. He has crafted entire neighborhoods with his savvy, and I cannot be prouder to add the CCH’s family house to this portfolio. Please, everyone, join me in welcoming the esteemed Mr. Alistair Blair!”

Dr. Chandler clapped furiously and backed up, slipping away from the podium as exuberantly as he had come in. The room broke into raucous cheers and applause as Alistair Blair entered from the left and took the stage. He strolled across the stage with a confident air about him, a lowball glass of amber liquid in his hand.

He sauntered casually to the center of the stage to stand behind the podium, placing his glass down next to the microphone and running his palms down the sides of the lectern, utterly at ease. He surveyed the crowd and gave a small smile.

And it was at that moment that I forgot how to breathe.

It had been ten years since I’d seen him last, and Alistair had changed yet remained exactly the same. His hair was still the same shade of soft black, but instead of long unruly strands that covered his face, it was now cropped, tended, trimmed with obvious skill. In lieu of old worn t-shirts that always managed to retain the scent of summers in the fields, Alistair wore a dark navy suit, tailored to his wide shoulders and tapered at his narrow waist and hips, designer and oozing sophistication.

But his face. That maddeningly beautiful face, it burned with a familiarity that gutted me, with the same anger and hostility that veiled a vulnerable and pained child. Now, that veil was thicker than ever and I wondered if the same boy still existed underneath, if time and society had scalded and destroyed any semblance of innocence. Alistair’s skin was a burnished light tan, and his narrow, smoldering light hazel eyes swept back and forth across the room. He held a tight smile on his face and gave off an intense, almost angry air. Not the greatest response to five hundred people cheering and clapping.

“Good evening, everyone.” His voice rang through the room, deep and husky with an almost hypnotic tone to it. The edge of an accent long forgotten was present in every word.

Alistair paused as he waited for the audience noise to die down. The clapping crescendoed to a climax, then tapered off until the room grew silent enough for a dropped pin to ring. More than a few chairs squeaked as their patrons shifted, listening in rapt attention.

“Thank you, Director Chandler, for those more than generous words.” Alistair turned and raised an upturned palm in the direction of the director, who was now standing behind him and to his right. A smattering of applause came, and the director gave a shallow bow. Then, Alistair slowly ran his large hands up and down the lectern’s wooden sides before he continued in a low, even voice.

“Today we’re here to raise funds to restructure and build out this building on Fifty-Seventh Street in order to prepare it for conversion to a family home. I can stand here and talk to you about the costs and challenges facing this project, tell you how your generous contribution tonight will help make a difference in lives for years to come. I can tell you how Blair Properties has pledged to match dollar for dollar every single donation given today, because I could tell you our hopes in allowing this building to become something of great worth and value.