Fifth Ave 01 - Fifth Avenue (16 page)

When a cab pulled alongside him, he stepped soaking wet inside and instructed the cabbie to take him to Redman Place, the condominium complex where many of Redman International’s senior executives lived--including himself, Celina and Diana Crane.
 
Not wanting to come across either of them, Eric went straight to his apartment, peeled off his damp clothes and crawled into bed, where he quickly forgot the beating he gave Leana Redman and fell asleep.

 
Now, standing beneath a hot shower, Eric realized the enormity of what he had done to Leana.
 
Hitting her with that belt had been a grave mistake.
 
If he hadn’t threatened her, Eric was certain she would have gone to the police--or to her father--and he now would be in jail, instead of his bathroom.

He wondered how long she would keep quiet.
 
Did she believe him when he said he’d have a contract put out on her?
 
When her anger prevailed--and he knew it would, probably even had--would she risk the chance that he was bluffing and go to the police? Or to George?

Eric stepped out of the shower and was struck with the realization that by hitting Leana, he had given her the power to blackmail him.
 
Leana knew how hard he had struggled to reach the top.
 
She knew how much his reputation and his job at Redman International meant to him.

If she wanted to, she could destroy everything he ever worked for.

*
 
*
 
*

Later, after changing into a pair of dark blue sweat pants and an old, faded football jersey, Eric knew he had to call Celina and explain to her what she’d walked in on last night.
 
If he let too much time pass, more damage would be done.
 

He went to the living room, picked up the telephone and dialed Celina’s number.
 
If she told her father what she had seen, he knew George would fire him--and all those years of struggling to the top would have been for nothing.
 
As the phone rang, his thoughts returned to Leana.
 
If he lost his job because of her, he would make her see that last night was just a party.

There was no answer.
 
Eric replaced the receiver, stepped into a pair of worn moccasins and left for Celina’s apartment, which was two floors above his.
 
There was no answer there as well.
 
Either she was out, or she was not answering the door.

He returned to his apartment and dialed the doorman.

“I saw her come in myself, Mr. Parker, at around eleven last night.
 
No, she hasn’t left the building.
 
Yes, I’m sure of it.
 
You have a nice day, too, sir.”

 
Eric replaced the receiver.
 
So, she was in her apartment.
 
He considered taking his own key and using it, but thought better of it.
 
She would have nothing to do with him now.
 
If he walked into her apartment unannounced, she would either throw him out herself, or she would have security do it.
 
Eric knew that as well as he knew himself.

It was over.
 
Deep down he knew what he had with Celina was over.
 
And all because of Leana.

He opened two French doors and stepped out onto a terrace that smelled faintly of potted roses and city air.
 
Below him, Fifth Avenue bustled and Central Park sighed, and the sun gilded the tops of shiny limousines and enormous elm trees.

As a boy, owning an apartment in New York City had been a dream.
 
And while he felt that one day his dream would come true, never did he think he would be living on Fifth Avenue.
 
Perhaps on the West side of Manhattan, maybe even in some obscure studio on the East side, but not Fifth Avenue.
 
And never, never with a view of Central Park.

He had paid $25 million for this view.
 
He had handed Manhattan’s top interior decorator an additional $10 million so he could say to guests, “It’s Art Deco.” At the time, he had been convinced the expense was worth it.
 
When you’re a senior executive at one of the world’s leading conglomerates--and sleeping with George Redman’s daughter--you believe your job is secure and that the money will last forever.

Now that he was faced with the possibility of being fired, Eric wasn’t so sure of that.

*
 
*
 
*

The reasons why she hated him--or should hate him, if she could only bring herself to that level--were listed on sheets of white paper and taped to her refrigerator, her desk, her bedroom and office walls.
 
She knew what she was doing was immature, but it was effective.

She placed the notes anywhere she could easily see them.
 
She had spent the better part of the night writing them and now, as Diana Crane taped the final list to her computer screen, she wondered again why she still loved the son of a bitch.

She knew it didn’t have to be that way.
 
She knew that other men found her attractive (hadn’t Eric told her so only last night?), and it was this knowledge that kept Diana going.
 
She did not need Eric Parker.
 
She just wanted him.

She looked at the phone on the table beside her, considered calling him and rejected the idea.
 
Leave it alone
, she thought.
 
You can do better.
 

But she reached for the phone and dialed his number, anyway.

Eric answered on the third ring.
 
“Hello?”

He was home.
 
She felt a rush and was about to speak when something made her change her mind and hang up.
 
It was ridiculous, childish, and she knew it.
 
Disappointed with herself, she left for the kitchen.
 
She wasn’t hungry, but she wanted to keep busy, so eating was the logical choice.

She was deep into a carton of choco-chunk ice cream when the doorbell rang.
 
Diana listened, hoping whoever was there would go away.
 
She was in no mood for company.
 
She had firm plans to finish this ice cream and move on to a box of chocolates.

But the doorbell continued to ring.

She went to the door, knowing she looked like hell in her blue jeans and white sweatshirt, but she didn’t care.
 
Whoever was there would have to accept her the way she was.

 
She opened the door and found Eric Parker holding two champagne glasses in one hand, and a bottle of Cristal in the other.
 
He smiled the same crooked smile that had won her heart years ago and Diana found herself hating him for it.
 

“I came to apologize,” he said.
 
“I was an asshole last night and I’m sorry.” He waited for a reply, but Diana stood firm.
 
“All right,” he said, his smile fading a little.
 
“What do you say about coffee here and then lunch in my apartment?
  
We can talk things over, I can tell you what’s going on with me and Celina, what’s going on with me and you, and then--”

Something caught his eye and he turned to the mirror at Diana’s right.
 
Taped to it was one of her lists.
  
Eric read the first few entries.
 
He stopped cold at the fourth.
 
“You really think I walk like I’m constipated?”

“You’re so full of shit, how couldn’t you?”

In the silence that passed, they looked at each other--and then began to laugh.
 
Diana stepped aside and motioned for him to walk through.
 
“It’s like I'm allowing a vampire inside,” she said.
 

“That bad?”

“Worse, but I have a stake in my bedroom, so I’m covered.
 
Have a seat.
 
You look like hell.
 
I’ll find the Pepto.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

On Sunday, Celina reached for the phone and called her family's Connecticut estate.

While she waited for the line to be answered, she moved across the living room, past the cardboard boxes stacked in the center of the room and stepped out onto the terrace.

It was early and the church bells were ringing across Manhattan.
 
She looked up at the high blue sky, felt the surprisingly fresh breeze on her face and watched the sun begin its slow ascent over the city.
 
Although it had been daylight for hours, the sun was just now making its appearance in midtown.

The line continued to ring.
 
“Come on,” she said aloud.
 
“Somebody answer the phone before I lose my nerve.”

The line finally clicked.
 
“Redman residence.”

“Carlos?
 
It’s Celina.
 
Is my father up yet?”

“He is, Miss Redman.”

“May I speak with him, please?”

Since she was a child, her parents always spent Sundays in the country.
 
Some of her favorite memories were shooting skeet with them both on lazy summer afternoons.

It was a moment before George answered.
 
“Where have you been?” he asked. “I’ve been trying to reach you since yesterday afternoon.”

She was surprised by the urgency in his voice.
 
“I’ve been here,” she said.
 
“But I haven’t been answering the phone.
 
Is something wrong?”

“Wrong?
 
Yeah, you could say something is wrong. You could say something is very wrong.
 
Things have fallen all to hell since I last saw you.
 
How soon can you get here?”

*
 
*
 
*

When she arrived at the Connecticut estate, she found George seated alone in the sunlit breakfast room, sipping black coffee, facing the long array of windows before him.

Celina removed her sunglasses and took the chair opposite him.
 
“What’s the problem?”

“Our deal with RRK?
 
It no longer exists.
 
I had lunch with them yesterday afternoon and they’ve backed out on us.
 
We’re going to have to find somebody else to finance the deal.”

She wasn’t surprised.
 
The deal always had been shaky.
 
“Did they give you a reason for backing out?”

“They gave a whole list of reasons,” George said.
 
“All them weak”

“You don’t think they’re going to try a takeover of their own, do you?”

“That would be stupid.
 
RRK knows we have management.
 
They know any hostile bid could be suicidal.”

“That may be so,” Celina said.
 
“But they also know we have inside information from your contact in the Navy.
 
They know the only reason we want WestTex is because of that information and our deal with Iran.
 
All of that has to be tempting.
 
They could very well make an offer of their own.
 
And don’t forget, they’ve already secured a commitment from Citibank to help with the financing.”