Enchanted Heart (3 page)

They dissected the menu, argued over what sounded interesting, asked the waiter in pale-blue wings and sparkling white shirt for recommendations and ended up ordering a sampler platter of appetizers and adventurous entrees.

As she sat with Julian, chitchatting about the day, she realized she'd yet to share with him the most significant occurrence: Lance Heart Smith showing up at her store. Viv wondered at the omission and what that might be saying about her relationship with Julian. She'd been giving somewhat serious thought to marrying him. Life with Julian would never be dull, and they could be content together. She supposed.

Now there was a dull word if ever she'd heard one. There should be more than that to recommend a life commitment. Maybe, as Vicki always said, she was just looking for something that didn't exist. Or, maybe she considered marrying Julian just because marriage represented something she'd never done. It was uncharted territory—and it didn't have to last forever.

It didn't even have to last six months.

That thought cheered her for about three seconds, long enough to realize just how pathetic it was. Julian was a nice guy, fun to be around and not bad—but not great—in bed. He deserved better than what Viv had to offer emotionally.

By the time he cut into the ostrich he'd ordered and Viv stared at her plate of marinated mahi-mahi, the appetite she'd had earlier was gone, her mind on more important things. Like the future.

“Julian,” she said, interrupting his story about . . . With a start, Viv realized she didn't know what he was talking about.

Did she make a habit of tuning him out?

Everything was high drama with Julian, which usually meant everything sounded the same. He could talk about getting gas to fill the tank of his BMW and the tale would be filled with all the flair and adventure of an Arthurian quest.

“Yes, love?”

She put her fork down. “Where are we going?”

He blinked. “What do you mean? After we leave here? Well,” he said suggestively, wagging an eyebrow, “my place . . .”

She shook her head. “I mean this relationship. Our . . . friendship?” She reached for her drink. Did she need the alcohol to have this conversation with him? On some level Viv knew she'd been putting this off for a while. She didn't need to add dulled senses to what could turn into an unpleasant confrontation. Then again, maybe she did. She took a fortifying sip of her second Cosmopolitan.

“Well, what brought that on?” he asked. “I thought that topic had a do not enter sign posted.”

So had Viv when she'd turned him down the last time.

“I met someone today.”

His expression changed, grew wary. “Oh?”

Viv detected a world of hurt and a river of regret in that one word from him. Her brown eyes connected with his green ones—well, green today given the contacts. Sometimes he had blue eyes, and occasionally gray. She wasn't even sure what his real eye color was. Probably basic brown. But Julian didn't like anything basic or average. That, she suspected, was why she appealed to him.

She opened her mouth to explain, to give him some idea of the restlessness and the longing she felt—the sense that life was passing her by. But since even she didn't know what it was that she longed for, it was impossible to describe her fears to him.

None of the right words came. Her mind raced with explanations, reasons, apologies. She wanted to articulate the sense of time running out that she felt, even though the things that mattered to other people, the things that got them thinking they might be running out of time, didn't apply to her situation. Other people worried about illnesses like cancer and AIDS, or divorce and the myriad problems that sent them into a tailspin of regret and pain and depression.

Viv got there without the attendant drama.

Julian reached for her free hand, lifted it to his lips and kissed it. “You say the word, Viv, and I'm standing next to you with a ring and a priest.”

She cast her eyes up at him. Hadn't she just barely an hour ago decided that if he asked her again she'd say yes?

She knew meeting with Lance Heart Smith today had everything to do with her hesitation. Lance reminded her of the life she'd left behind—fast times, every moment a feel-good party. Julian also left her with vestiges of the glamour and drama of her former life. But Lance was hardly the settling down type. He was everything she was trying to overcome: sexy come-ons and one-night stands. Between the two, Julian offered the better bet.

This restlessness had been with her for a while. It was there before the trip to Rhode Island, before she'd seriously started thinking about expanding the Guilty Pleasures operation. It had been there for a long time.

If she could pinpoint it at all, it started with Basil laughing in her face, telling her she'd never make a go of an underwear store. Basil refusing to cosign the loan she'd needed to complete her financing package. Basil telling her she was pretty window-dressing and nothing else. He'd reminded her time and again that when her figure and her face changed with pounds and age, she'd have nothing. The thought—and the inevitable brutality of it—left her anxious and tense.

The sober reminder and reality of what she could look like and where she'd be without her looks and figure filled her with fear bordering on hysteria.

“Viv?”

She started at his touch, then realized she'd clutched the delicate stem of the martini glass so hard that it snapped in two. The red of the liqueur and cranberry juice in the Cosmopolitan stained the creamy white linen of the overlay and quickly soaked through to the blue layer of tablecloth. Mixed with the alcohol was the deeper red of Viv's blood where she'd cut a finger on the glass.

Julian sprang into action, efficiently hailing a waiter, staunching the trickle of blood by applying pressure to her hand. Viv watched, almost as if in a trance or viewing a distinctly unpleasant stage play, one not worth leaving because the tickets were paid for, but not worth staying because surely there had to be a better way to kill time.

Killing time.

That's what she'd been doing the last many years of her life, hopping from man to man. She was twenty-seven going on forty-seven in many respects. Julian had been a safe diversion; Basil an annoying thornbush in her garden. But in the end, she'd been doing nothing more than treading water in a shallow pond; afraid to go deep where the bigger fish swam in unknown depths.

A small group of Cloud 9 staff, all male, gathered at the table, fussing over her while Julian directed the action. A clean white cloth, ice at its center, was pressed to her finger. The manager clucked, the waiter murmured, the others spoke in a rush of sound that seemed to be leading to an eardrum-bursting crescendo.

She had to get some air. Now.

“I'm fine,” she said. “I'm fine.”

She pushed her chair back and accepted a hand up from a man—the wine steward?—with orange highlights in his box blond hair. “Where's the ladies' room?”

A moment later, safe from the suffocating fawning, Viv stood before a full-length mirror in the women's rest room. She didn't have to study her image to know what was reflected there. Her face had been on enough billboards and buses and in enough magazines over the years to know what she looked like—and not be all that impressed. Not in the total scheme of things. Now, as always, the outer package remained what it was: an attention getter. Something she'd never taken for granted though. Time and circumstances were too fleeting to take anything in life for granted.

Would the men out there—Julian, the restaurant manager, the waiter, and the wine steward—react to her the way they did if she didn't have the voluptuous curves, the sexy smile and wide dark eyes? Would they?

Viv knew the answer. And it hurt just as much as it always did.

Taking a deep breath, she turned on the faucet and stuck her hand under cold running water. Barely a nick, the cut on her finger wouldn't even require a tiny bandage, let alone warrant the kind of fuss being made out there.

Suddenly feeling as though she might burst into tears any moment and wanting nothing more than to go to a quiet place to sort out the raw emotions that bubbled to the surface, she looked around for an escape. The breakdown she'd been trying to outrun for months seemed upon her.

She could fight it though. She would fight it.

She stared at her reflection for a moment then dried her hands, ignoring the assortment of lotions and oils available on the vanity and pulled the door open, steeling herself for the circus that awaited.

Two steps forward and she confronted a solid wall of man.

“Excuse me,” he said, extending a hand to steady her while fiddling with a cell phone with the other. “I had a call.”

Everything in Viv went on full alert. Awareness trickled through her, waves of wanting and neediness washed across her senses, her body responding in the elemental way it had done once before today.

“Lance?”

Their gazes connected then. And a slow, indulgent smile spread across his face. “Vivienne.”

He said her name like a caress and Viv suddenly knew what she wanted, what she needed. She'd spent most of the day trying to convince herself that there was nothing special about him, nothing that she hadn't already experienced. But like recognized like and deep called unto deep.

“Let's get out of here,” she said.

Without a word, Lance pocketed his phone and led her through the maze of tables toward the door.

“Viv?” Julian called out.

Not only did she not answer him, she didn't even look back.

“Where?” Lance asked after he settled behind the wheel of his Jaguar.

Viv glanced around. “How about there?” she said, pointing to the Marriott a few blocks down the street.

Not many minutes later, Lance closed and locked the hotel room door behind him. Viv was undoing his silk tie and he her bustier. She wanted this now, fast and furious. And he seemed to understand the urgency, the need riding her hard. Few words were spoken as a trail of clothing fell behind them. He backed her into the room until her legs bumped the edge of the bed.

“Leave the shoes on,” he murmured. “I like them.”

His hand crept up her thigh, the smooth skin soft and warm. “Viv, are you sure? You said no earlier.”

In answer she took his head in her hands, tilted her own and kissed him deeply. Lance bent a knee and they tumbled to the bed. When her panties finally went the way of their other clothes, they lay there, skin to skin, heartbeat to heartbeat.

Viv stared down into his eyes, reveling in the feel of his strong hands at her waist, his eyes devouring her. “Love me, Lance.”

He made quick, efficient work of sheathing his erection in a condom and then he slid into the tight warmth of Viv's body. Her eyes closed and her head thrown back, Viv rode him hard and wild, setting the rhythm for their frantic coupling.

She clutched her vaginal muscles around him and Lance cried out. When completion came, her world shattered in a million pieces, fragments of light and shadow cascading around her. She felt him shudder once, twice. And then it was over.

Their gazes met. Lance smiled up at her and Viv burst into tears.

3

I
n Federal Correctional Institution Fairton, Dean Khan counted the days until he'd be free. Prison had given him plenty of time to contemplate the so-called error of his ways.

Idiots.

Just because a man hadn't pulled a life term and didn't run around with tattoos and prison gangs didn't mean he wasn't dangerous. Dean Khan had never killed anyone. He didn't like getting his hands dirty. Besides, there were other ways to bring somebody down. Violence was the means of communication used by people who didn't know how to express themselves.

A model prisoner, he'd served his time without major incident and had accomplished his two primary objectives while a guest at Fairton: he'd completed a master's degree via correspondence and closed-circuit television courses, and he'd figured out how to make that bitch Rachel pay for setting him up.

If she'd thought he'd forgive and forget she had another think coming. Because of her he'd lost a lot of years of his life, and by his estimate, that meant a helluva lot of money and potential.

Dean was no fool though. He'd gotten his ducks in a row before the trial. The bulk of his money was securely earning lots of interest in several off-shore banks that didn't ask questions and in numbered accounts that couldn't be directly linked to him. Dean Khan may have been cooling his heels in prison, but by no means had his time been wasted. He'd even formed a couple of alliances in Fairton that might prove useful later on. It wouldn't take him long to be back in the mix. But first he had some unfinished business to which to attend.

The score he had to settle with Rachel had nothing to do with the eight grand with which she'd skipped off. That pocket change meant nothing to him. What mattered to Dean, what pissed him off about that little cunt was the way she'd turned on the tears on the witness stand, then laughed in his face as he'd walked by after the verdict. She thought she was safe. She thought he'd forgotten. But Dean didn't forget and he definitely didn't forgive.

It was the principle of the thing that hacked him off. And if nothing else, Dean Khan was a man of principles.

 

 

“Something has to be done about Lance,” Virginia Heart said.

“Done? He's a grown man, Ginny.”

The Heart family matriarch sat in her parlor with her brother-in-law, trying to make sense out of the latest problem besetting the family name. When her husband died, Virginia had inherited this house, as well as vacation homes in North Carolina and Florida, an apartment building in Detroit, more than enough money to keep her content, and interest just short of controlling in Heart Federated Department Stores.

But it was this room that she loved the most, this room where she felt more at ease than anywhere else in her homes. It was her sanctuary. All of Virginia's favorite things were here: the paintings, the rugs and the antique furnishings she'd earned during a loveless marriage.

“Lance is a loose cannon. He's dangerous.”

Jimmy Heart chuckled as he chomped on an unlit cigar. He sat in the chair he'd claimed as his own. The seat of power, he called it. And because it amused her and the chair didn't clash with the elegant Victorian decor, she'd let it stay.

“You're just mad because you can't control him.”

She cut him a withering glance, but Jimmy just laughed louder. “That evil eye might work on some people but I've known you for fifty years, Ginny.”

“Go to hell.”

Jimmy shrugged and lit the cigar. “Probably will. But you've gotten off topic.”

“The topic is Lance. He needs a job. Something to occupy him. And don't stink up my house with that thing.”

As he'd been doing for years, Jimmy ignored her complaint about his cigar. He took a deep puff. “He's twenty-eight years old and a millionaire. Shoot, I envy him. When I was his age I was busting my butt trying to feed my family.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Must be Alzheimer's settling in,” she said on a dry tone. “That's revisionist history if I've ever heard it. You never worked an honest day in your life.”

“I resent that,” he said. “Even though I resemble it.”

That got a smile from her. “Lance still needs to do some work.”

“What does he need with a job?”

“The same thing everybody needs,” she snapped as she stood to pace the area in front of the sofa. “Something to occupy his time. Whoring, partying and picking up hoochie mamas in nightclubs does not qualify as an occupation.”

“Sounds good to me,” Jimmy mumbled with a grin.

“I heard that.”

“You're being unnecessarily harsh on the boy, Ginny. And unfair. You don't give him credit. He works hard in his own way.”

Virginia snorted, the sound quite unladylike. “Don't you lecture me about harshness or life being unfair. I'm the one who has had to stand by and watch . . .”

Jimmy held up a hand, staving off the tirade. “Save it, Ginny. I've heard it all before and the facts still remain the facts. You can put any picture you want on it and underneath it all, the truth is still the truth.”

Ginny Heart didn't deign to go down that road so she ignored her brother-in-law. “I can cut him off.”

“Won't do much good. He's earned his own money.”

“Earned! Ha! If you call traipsing after Cole earning a living.”

“What do you want me to do, Ginny? He's grown. It's not like I can take away his allowance or his keys to the family car.”

A slow smile spread across her face. “Actually, that's just what I had in mind.”

“What do you mean?”

She just smiled. “You'll see.”

Jimmy had grown weary of the discussion. He put down his drink and walked to the mantel filled with photographs of the many Heart relatives—at least the ones with whom Virginia got along. Conspicuously missing was any image of Ginny's son Cole. She'd thrown them all in the trash more than a year ago. She didn't know that her maid had retrieved them and given them to Jimmy. One day the photos—and the knowledge that she'd tossed them out—might come in handy.

Virginia and her son could eventually have a reconciliation and she'd regret all that she'd done to Coleman. Of course, the chances of that ever happening were about as likely as Lucifer getting a reprieve from the Lord. But Jimmy liked to hedge his bets. And he believed in backup insurance. Cole was pretty much out of the picture now, and with him gone and Ginny with too much time on her hands, Lance was her next best and obvious target.

Jimmy had a soft spot for Lance, even though he'd never let the boy, or Ginny, know. Some things were better left unsaid.

Virginia had doted on Lance for years, but that was all about to come to an end. Lance didn't know it, but he'd brought her wrath on himself. One dalliance after the other had finally set his grandmother off.

Jimmy fingered the photographs, one of Lance and Ginny in particular. It had been taken when he'd graduated from Brown. Ginny looked happy then, younger and both beautiful and proud.

The woman now sitting on the sofa behind him bore no resemblance to the one in the picture.

He pointed to it. “Why don't you concentrate on the good times?”

Her eyes narrowed. Then, in one swallow she downed the rest of her gin and tonic. “Probably because I can't remember any of them.”

 

 

“Are you sure you won't come with me?”

Sonja Pride glanced up at her husband. She enjoyed the quiet times they shared together in the evenings. In the year since they'd married, she'd taught Cole how to relax a little. While she ostensibly did work on her laptop, Cole was supposed to be unwinding with a book. The library with its rich cherry woods and warm hearth was one of her favorite rooms in the house. But Cole didn't seem to notice either her preference for the cozy room or any of the books that filled three walls of it.

His intensity about this Brazilian project reminded her of the days when they'd first met. At that time, Cole had been a harried CEO who downed antacids the way people ate M&M's. One of the things that still grated on her about their relationship was that Cole, with his own ambitions, sometimes forgot that she, too, had goals and dreams, as well as responsibilities to her own people.

Their problem wasn't communication. They did that very well. The problem was that their personal goals still conflicted in ways that sabotaged their marriage.

She pushed her computer glasses to the top of her head. “Cole, I have a business to run. I can't just drop everything and run away with you to Rio.”

About to reshelve a novel, he paused. “You don't take this seriously either.”

Sonja sighed. “Now you're just trying to pick a fight.”

She wondered if that, indeed, was his aim.

Their battles were legendary, the stuff his mother loved. But long ago Cole and Sonja had come to terms with their rocky beginning, and the fact that there was no love lost between either of them and his mother. When Cole and Sonja met, Sonja had been out to destroy the company that he'd fought to keep afloat. In the end, neither of them won, but together they'd discovered that foolish hearts sometimes made the best partners.

Cole shoved the book on a shelf then ran a hand over his face. “I'm not picking a fight. I am, however, pointing out that neither you nor Lance seems to be with me on this.”

With a snap Sonja closed the computer and stood. “What do you mean ‘with you,' Cole? I gave you money. I sent one of my employees to Salvador to set up the groundwork for you. And, I might add, that that employee, a linguistics specialist, was someone I really needed stateside at the time. If that's not support, Cole, tell me what is.”

“You by my side, Sonja. My wife. That's the support I'm talking about.”

She put her hands on her hips. “You're always talking about us being equals, partners in this marriage, yet I know that if you were still running Heart Federated and I were the one,” she said, poking herself in the chest, “about to go skipping off to Brazil, you wouldn't leave your job to accompany me. What am I supposed to do while you're off doing deals?”

“You're blowing this out of proportion, Sonja.”

She shook her head. “No, Cole. You started this.”

This was a fight that had been brewing for a while. Sonja hadn't planned to get into it tonight, but maybe it was time, past time that they actually dealt with the issue head-on. Maybe they shouldn't have married. Maybe they should have allowed the happily-ever-after end when things were going well. Neither of them backed down from challenges though. And this was a big one.

Much like hungry lions stalking territory moments before a kill, they circled the facing love seats in front of the fireplace, Sonja in one direction and Cole moving in the other.

“You know what I think,” she said, her voice a taunt. “I think you're angry and jealous that I have a company to run. The Pride Group is mine. All mine. I built it up from nothing and you can't stand that.”

“I think you're way out of line.”

She raised an eyebrow and gave a short sniff of derision. “Whatever you're running from, Cole, it's still going to find you in Brazil. You say you want to tap into the resources of emerging markets in Latin America. That's worthy and all. But what about the need right here at home? There are communities not forty minutes from here that would thrive on a third of the resources you're putting into this Brazilian project. You could set up a small business incubator providing venture capital for companies right here in Virginia. You don't have to go to another continent to make a difference.”

“This has nothing to do with where my money is best spent.”

She nodded. “Uh-huh. Your money,” she said. “But you know what Cole? It's not about the money. This is all about you running away to a place where you can start over as the big man in town.”

For a long time they glared at each other across the expanse of the sofas, the angry words hanging in the air of the still room. The silence lengthened, much like the gulf that grew between them each day.

It was Cole who finally broke the impasse. “I'm going out.”

“Go ahead, Cole. Run away. It's what you do best these days.”

His back straight, he paused mid-stride on the way to the door. But after a moment, he continued without looking back, slamming the portal on his way out. Sonja snatched up a book from the sofa and sent it winging toward the door. The hearty thwack of the impact didn't make her feel any better.

 

 

“You're right,” he said, more than an hour later. He stood in the doorway of their bedroom. “Can we talk about this?”

Sonja sat propped up in bed reading a novel. He used to tease her about the romances with which she liked to relax, until she read a few aloud to him. In turn, not only had Cole developed a new appreciation for the genre and its writers, he'd encouraged Sonja to act out some of the steamy love scenes they'd discovered together between the pages of those love stories.

Tonight, however, wouldn't be a night for sultry passion. The tension between them had little to do with sex and everything to do with whether they'd continue as a couple. She'd hurled some ugly things his way. She wasn't sorry though. What she'd said needed saying.

In the last few months, the little stress fractures in their relationship had turned into a major fault line. Being honest with herself, Sonja acknowledged that the first fissure started before they'd even said “I do.” She'd insisted on keeping her name after they were married. Old-fashioned Cole still had problems with that as well as her need for independence and autonomy.