By Hook or By Crook (3 page)

But when Ivy was twelve, Elizabeth had succumbed to breast cancer. Their father had sold the comfortable old Tudor and moved to the Gold Coast high-rise, where he could throw himself into his work more than ever. His daughters had come with him as something of an afterthought.

While Ivy still lived here with her father and sister, she’d made an effort to humanize the place, but he always rebuffed her. “A house is a house,” he grumbled. Instead, he hired the corporate decorator who had designed the interiors of his offices to do the home, as well. As a result, the penthouse had the same gray-and-beige color scheme and bland abstract art as the corporate side of Smithson Commercial Real Estate. Sometimes Ivy wondered if her father had done that on purpose, to give him the feeling that he never left work.

For Ivy, the saving grace of the penthouse was its view. Windows wrapped around the building, revealing Lincoln Park on one side, darkly gleaming Lake Michigan and the Gold Coast on the other. She sat in one of her father’s uncomfortable contemporary chairs in front of the windows, taking in the beauty of the night lights of Chicago’s legendary skyline reflecting on the midnight-black waters of the lake. A blinking red light moved across the water far off—a shipping vessel, probably.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of this late-evening visit?”

Her father’s voice behind her made her jump. She rose and turned to face him, her throat tight. She might be an adult, but confronting her father at difficult moments made her feel like a child.

She had interrupted his workout. He blotted his damp face with a towel and draped it around his neck. Few would guess that her father was nearly sixty. He worked out in his building’s gym and swimming pool daily, keeping himself fit. Only his silver hair and receding hairline hinted at his true age. His unlined skin and lean physique seemed to belong to a man closer to forty.

“Sorry for interrupting,” she began, wondering how on earth she could broach this news gently.

“I don’t mind. I expect it’s something important or you wouldn’t be here at this time of night without notice. None of my children ever visit spontaneously, since everyone moved out.” She’d half-expected the jab. Her father excelled at dispensing guilt.

“You make it sound like we all abandoned you, Dad. My condo is only a few blocks away.” She tried to keep anxiety out of her voice. Arguing with her dad, even mildly, always made her tense.

“It’s not the same,” he said. “I liked it when we were all living under the same roof. I could make sure you were safe.”

“My building has excellent security, Dad.”

Her father hadn’t been pleased two years ago when Ivy moved to another building several blocks away. She had never liked being only an elevator’s ride away from her father at all times. For his part, he hated when his daughters made decisions without his input. It struck him too much as a bid for independence, Ivy thought ruefully, which of course it had been, in a tiny way.

In fact, she sometimes wondered how much she’d accomplished by moving to a building much like the one her father owned. A maid still came to clean every day, the laundry service picked up her dirty clothes and dropped off clean ones twice a week, and a personal shopper kept the pantry stocked. Ivy did the cooking, though. Before her mother died, they’d cooked together, and Ivy still felt close to her when she cooked.

He retrieved a bottle of water from the refrigerator and sat at the breakfast bar. As if he read her mind, he asked, “What has Daisy been up to now?”

“What makes you think Daisy has been up to something?” she hedged, sitting again.

“You rarely cause trouble, and your sister does. Call it an educated guess.”

Either her father had developed psychic ability, or she was totally predictable. Unfortunately, Ivy suspected the latter. Pushing aside her irritation, she launched into her story. She’d done nothing wrong, but she still had to fight the urge to squirm under her father’s unyielding stare. His tenacity and presence intimidated even his own family. It explained why Richard Smithson had been able to rise from a modest upbringing to become one of America’s wealthiest real estate moguls.

He listened in silence, betraying no reaction. His impassive face concerned her more than an eruption would have. She would have understood an eruption, but his blank expression made him impossible to read. When she finished, he said nothing. Only his thinning lips betrayed his anger.

He retrieved his cell phone and punched in a series of numbers.

“I called her again before I left the car,” Ivy offered. She shifted on her seat, intensely ill at ease, and then stopped herself.
You’re an adult
, she reminded herself.
Time to start acting like one
.

“She’ll pick up for me,” her father said, offhand. Her brows rose at his self-assurance, but she said nothing. As the phone rang repeatedly, her father scowled. “She must be away from it. She
always
picks up for me.”

“Unless she’s up to something she’s not supposed to be, and doesn’t want you to stop her,” Ivy pointed out.

“I’m sure this is nothing,” her father insisted. He clicked the phone off and stared out at Lake Michigan. After a minute or two, he dialed again, but still got no answer. After another moment, he clicked a different series of numbers. “I’m going to need you to come over,” he said to the person on the other end of the line. “Yeah, right now. I’ll explain when you get here. Thanks.”

His eyes met Ivy’s.

“Who did you call?” she asked in the wake of his silence.

His expression, not a grimace, but not quite a smile, made her uneasy. “A man I know. A consultant. He’s a very useful man to have around. I call him when I need to know something.”

Ivy’s brows rose. “And what do you need to know now?”

“How to stop your damned foolish sister before she does something she’ll regret forever.”

****

“Honey, hon! I’ve gotta get that. I’m sorry.”

Joe Dunham pulled back from the woman entwined around him to reach for his cell phone. She rolled her eyes, taking the moment to dab at her smeared lipstick. In the bar parking lot, he had leaned into her for a passionate kiss—to establish the mood before the drive back to his place—and now this. Richard Smithson, his biggest client. Being an ex-cop turned security consultant meant you couldn’t ignore a call from a regular paycheck like Smithson, no matter how tempted you were.

The girl, Cherry—or was it Carrie?—pouted but leaned against his Dodge Charger. He thought about telling her to watch the paint job, but decided he shouldn’t press his luck. They’d met forty-five minutes ago in Buster’s, a bar where Joe often came to grab a beer and a burger, shoot some pool, and maybe meet a girl. Tonight, he’d done all three. She had made it clear she was his for the price of two margaritas. He usually preferred brunettes to redheads, a little more on the voluptuous side, but she was friendly and eager and would suit him fine for one night.

“Dunham here.” The conversation was short, and a minute later, Joe shut his phone with a snap.

Damn
.

He didn’t need to explain anything to Cherry/Carrie. She could tell by the look on his face that the evening was over. “I’m sorry, it’s a work thing. I’ve got to go. Can I give you a ride home?”

She leaned closer to him, her bottle-red hair swirling about her shoulders as she went up on tiptoe to press her lips to his. “Maybe I can change your mind?” she whispered, reaching down to stroke his fly.

Stifling a groan, he pushed her hand away. Subtle she wasn’t, but he had never cared much for subtle. Damn, if it were anyone but Smithson...

“I can’t. It’s an emergency. I really have to go. Can I get your number for some other time, maybe?” He held up his phone, ready to enter her number. He had dozens of others in his phone from girls like her: Hook-ups and one-night stands he meant to call again sometime but never got around to. She didn’t have to know that, however. Besides, who knew? Maybe he’d actually call her someday. Stranger things had happened.

Cherry/Carrie apparently had a pretty good idea he’d never call. “Nah. I’m not giving up on tonight.” She nodded toward the neon sign over Buster’s. “I’ll go back in there. The fireman was pretty cute, too.”

Joe grinned. Maybe he should mind that she saw him as a one-night hookup who could be easily replaced, but he didn’t. That’s what he was, and that’s what Cherry/Carrie was to him as well. That’s all any woman had ever been to him, and that suited him fine. He kissed her goodbye and got behind the wheel without looking back.

At the Smithson Towers, Joe swiped his card to gain access to the secure parking garage and then took the elevator up to the penthouse suite. He didn’t understand wanting to live over the shop, the way Smithson did, but he supposed that was one more thing that separated him from the billionaire. One of
many
things, he thought with a wry smile. His tendency to screw up anything he touched was another, but hey, who was keeping track?

The guard nodded and buzzed him in. “Mr. Smithson is expecting you,” he said.

“Thanks.”

He entered the suite and followed the low hum of voices coming from the galley kitchen. Apparently Smithson wasn’t alone. As he drew closer, he realized that the other voice—soft, modulated, and lovely—belonged to a woman. He didn’t come across soft and lovely very often. The women he took to bed were pretty enough, but definitely not soft. He preferred women who wouldn’t expect much from him—women who wouldn’t fall apart when he decided to stop calling. He always stopped calling, sooner or later.

He found Smithson and his companion seated on the bar stools that separated the kitchen from the living area. “Ah, Dunham. You’re here. Meet my daughter, Ivy. Ivy, this is Joe Dunham.”

He extended his hand reflexively for a handshake, but drew up short as she lifted her chin to meet his gaze. Champagne-blonde hair, styled in a perfect swath, framed a delicately boned face and deep blue eyes. High cheekbones balanced a determined chin and a soft set of lips. Her eyes were an opaque blue, deep, not reflective. If he hadn’t been paying attention, he could have skipped right over her quiet, restrained beauty without noticing.

Joe Dunham, however, always paid attention.

Ivy Smithson wasn’t just in a different ballpark from his usual type of woman—she was a completely different sport. Still, something about her struck him in an inexplicable way, and he wasn’t the only one affected. He suspected she was, too, from the way her gaze skittered away. His interest sharpened not an hour after doing his damnedest to bed another woman.

Well, hell, he had never claimed to be a saint.

“Nice to meet you,” the woman murmured, still not quite meeting his eyes.

He found himself oddly charmed by her apparent shyness. She must be late twenties, he guessed. She should be beyond blushing at meeting a stranger. That she couldn’t hold his gaze he took as a compliment.

Where women were concerned, he took everything as a compliment, unless he couldn’t possibly take it any other way.

“Likewise. I didn’t know you had a daughter, Mr. Smithson.”

Ivy quickly looked at her father, eyes wide, and he sensed that his remark had generated a wee bit of tension.

“I keep my personal life separate from my work life,” Richard interjected smoothly.

What a crock. Smithson insisted on living in the same building where he worked, after all, but Joe let it slide. Life was complicated enough without borrowing other people’s problems. He wasn’t getting paid to pass judgment on Richard Smithson’s dubious parenting.

He cast another glance over Ivy. Her wool slacks, cream-colored blouse, and camel blazer were obviously high-end but seemed more like a uniform than personal expression. She looked like a woman who hid behind her clothes. Still, even her conservative clothes couldn’t quite hide her slim, toned figure.

Again, not his style. He liked curvy women, the less subtle the better. Oddly, he could see himself making an exception for Ivy Smithson under different circumstances, but that didn’t matter much. He kept his work and personal life separate. He wouldn’t foul his own nest by pursuing the daughter of his biggest client, no matter how many curious glances she sent him from beneath her long lashes.

Smithson gestured for him to take a seat and gazed out over the lake below. Joe pulled up a chair that turned out to be every bit as uncomfortable as it looked. When Smithson didn’t speak immediately, Joe didn’t prompt him. He knew from past experience the man couldn’t be rushed. Finally, Smithson turned to face him, his blue eyes a few shades lighter than his daughter’s, and immeasurably colder.

“Ivy is not my only daughter. I have a younger daughter, Daisy, who is twenty-three. Daisy is flighty and naive, prone to doing foolish things. Ivy here has told me that Daisy intends to marry.”

Daughters named Daisy and Ivy? Joe would never have given Richard Smithson credit for that much imagination. When the older man didn’t continue, Joe raised one eyebrow. “And?”

“The marriage would be a disaster. She’s hooked up with some character named Pock.” Joe didn’t miss the scorn in his voice. “He’s only out for her money, but of course she doesn’t see that. I’ve spent my life building my company, and I don’t intend for any of it to go to some punk who wants my daughter to support him while he runs around acting like a complete jerk-off.”