Kentucky Rich (23 page)

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Authors: Fern Michaels

BOOK: Kentucky Rich
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I gave my uncle Pyne a penny,
she signed.
It's been to heaven and back. I don't need it anymore. He does, though. He started to cry. Do you think he'll cry as much as I did?
Nick stared helplessly at his mother, who was smiling from ear to ear. “Count on it, big sister.”
Nealy hugged her daughter and son good-bye and watched until their rental car was out of sight. Now she had other business to take care of.
 
 
Since it was still early in the business day, Nealy had her choice of parking spots. She maneuvered the rental car into a spot under the overhang of a large oak, hoping the sun wouldn't be as strong in that particular spot. It would probably be stifling hot when she came back, but she would be able to live with that.
It was a new building, all brick and glass. There was no character to it at all. Just a clean-looking square building with four floors. The Cyrus Roland Building. She just knew the entire building was full of white-collar investment bankers with the senior Roland still active in the day-to-day business. The senior and junior members of the Roland family also belonged to every equine organization there was. They owned and boarded over a dozen horses in Kentucky that represented millions of dollars. No Derby winners, no Preakness winners, no Belmont winners. A few Blue Grass Stakes, one Santa Anita, but that was it. Nothing to light up a trophy room.
Nealy smiled as she hitched up her jeans, tucked in the pristine white shirt, and adjusted her Stetson before she slipped on a pair of Chanel sunglasses, a gift from Smitty on her last birthday.
At the entrance she looked around. The landscaping was lush and green, even fragrant. She found herself staring at her reflection in the glass and shiny brass that was everywhere on the first floor. It looked expensive. Cold, austere, and expensive. Perhaps even a tad intimidating to those without seven digits in their yearly income. Smitty had told Nealy a few months ago that Roland Investments had hit a rough patch with some junk-bond mess they were struggling to get out of.
Nealy opened the door, meandered toward the center of the huge lobby to a round marble desk, where a uniformed guard sat staring at monitors and an open car-racing magazine in front of him. “Good morning, sir,” she said. “I'm here to pick up Dillon. Now don't you be calling upstairs and spoiling the surprise. Rolly and I are going to surprise Dillon today like he's never been surprised before. He's waiting for me, and you know Rolly doesn't have a lot of patience at his age. I'm Cornelia Diamond, sir.”
“Rolly?” the guard said, a puzzled look on his face.
Nealy clucked her tongue. “Shoot, I keep forgetting everyone doesn't call Mr. Cyrus Roland Rolly the way family does. He's going to be a mite put out if you don't let me go upstairs right now.”
“Your name isn't on the list, ma'am,” the guard said.
“Shoot. Rolly is getting forgetful. Seems like every day or so he has one of those little senior moments everyone talks about. I spoke to him just ten minutes ago, and he told me to hustle right over here. I hustled. I'm here. I'll be sure to mention to Rolly how accommodating you've been. Things like this help when they start figuring out Christmas bonuses.”
“Well, all right. I don't want to be the one upsetting Mr. Roland's surprise. It's the fourth floor. Take the private elevator to the right.”
“Shoot, I know that, sweetie. You be sure to mark my name down there now. Rolly likes to know who comes in and out of his building. You are the sweetest man for helping me out like this. I'm going to tweak Rolly about not putting my name down on the expected list. Guess he was afraid Dillon would see it and spoil the surprise.”
“I'm sure that's it. Y'all enjoy that surprise.”
“Honey, Dillon is going to sit up and
purr
when he finds out,” Nealy drawled.
She sashayed her way to the private elevator that led to Cyrus and Dillon Roland's private offices. Inside the elevator, Nealy looked around at the luxurious teak-wood paneling and mirrored walls. She sat down on a petit point chair and gazed at her reflection. She looked scared out of her wits. She removed her sunglasses. She still looked scared out of her wits. So much for bluster. She put them back on.
Dove gray carpeting hugged her instep when she exited the elevator. The walls were mirrored, a perfect backdrop for the exquisite creature sitting behind a green-marble desk that was bare of everything except a phone, a marble nameplate, a message pad with an attached pen, and a crystal dish of M&Ms. Her thick blonde hair was stylish and piled on top of her head.
Hair extensions,
Nealy thought. No one could have that much hair and not be top-heavy. Her eyes were a compliment to her eye doctor. Lavender. The only other person she'd ever heard of who had lavender eyes was Elizabeth Taylor. Excellent contact lenses. Her teeth were pearl white, small, and perfect. It was obvious she'd made some dentist thirty thousand dollars richer. Nealy knew a thing or two about fashion these days, with Smitty's help. The exquisite creature wore Armani that draped flawlessly over her perfectly shaped body. Nips and tucks, sliced and diced, another forty grand. Rolex watch, diamond stud earrings, and extra-long, acrylic, squared-off nails with a French manicure. Emmie's only question would be, how does she wipe her rear end?
Very carefully,
Nealy thought. The marble nameplate on her desk said the exquisite creature's name was Felicity St. John.
Felicity smiled, a major feat in itself with her lacquered-looking makeup. Nealy noticed the woman staring at her jeans and boots. “Honey, I didn't have time to change. The moment my private jet landed, I had to skeddadle right over here. Tell Dillon I need to see him right away. Like this very minute,” Nealy purred.
“Miss . . . Mr. Roland is in a meeting. He can't be disturbed. You don't have an appointment. Do you, Miss . . . ?”
“Well, shoot! You just go in there and fetch him right out. I can't be tying up my pilot while Dilly is in there discussing stuffy old things like money. Hustle now. Airplane fuel is expensive.”
“Mr. Roland left strict orders that he was not to be disturbed. He instructed me to keep all his calls on hold, Miss . . . I'm sorry. You really need to make an appointment.”
Nealy reached into her hip pocket for one of her business cards. It was wrinkled and bent when she pulled it out. She leaned across the shiny green-marble desk and got a whiff of an incredibly expensive perfume. “Let me put it to you another way, Miss Felicity St. John. Either you get off that designer ass of yours and go in there, or I'll boot it through the goddamn door. That means like now. Don't even think about not doing it or the toe of this boot will find its way clear up to your
tonsils.
Now hop to it, honey, and give old Dillon my card while you're at it. By the way, Armani or not, lime green does not go with those lavender contact lenses.”
Nealy grinned when Felicity St. John tripped over her own feet in her haste to plow through the thick carpeting leading to Dillon's door, where she knocked discreetly, opening the door at the same moment to slither inside and close the door behind her.
He should be out on the count of three,
Nealy thought.
One, two, threeee.
“Cornelia Diamond, if I do live and breathe. Now to what do I owe the pleasure of this little visit?” Dillon Roland threw out his arms in welcome. “I never thought I'd see the day you'd come calling on old Dillon Roland.”
“I was in the area. Can we go somewhere to talk in private?” Nealy said, looking pointedly at the Barbie doll behind the desk, who was staring at her with venom in her eyes.
“I have a client in my office, but we were just finishing up. The conference room on this floor is available if you'll just give me a minute. Felicity, see to Miss Diamond's comfort.” From the look on Miss Felicity St. John's face, she would rather have seen to a rattler's comfort.
“Certainly, sir,” she said, showing off the pearl white teeth. “If you'll follow me, Miss Diamond. Can I get you anything? A soda pop, coffee, hemlock?”
Nealy smiled. “Cappuccino would be nice.”
“Why . . . I . . .”
“Would you have to leave the building to get it? That's all right. I'll be here for a little while. You take your time now, you hear.” Nealy flopped down on a chair whose petit point cushions matched the cushion on the bench in the private elevator.
The door opened soundlessly. Nealy half turned in her chair to acknowledge Dillon Roland's presence.
“Cornelia, may I call you that? And of course, I'm Dillon. I'm not a formal kind of person. My father is, but I'm not. Never have been.”
Thinning hair, thick around the middle. Custom-made suit, pricey shoes. Rolex watch. All the trappings of wealth not to mention the elegant surroundings. In his youth, he'd been handsome and muscular. He'd recited beautiful poetry to her. Back then he did have a way with words. Back then she'd thought he had soulful eyes. Now they looked calculating and wary.
“Call me whatever you like. First things first. Wherever did you get that Barbie doll in the reception area?”
“My father hired her. She makes the place look good, and for that we pay her eighty grand a year. She reads trashy magazines all day long. When she hears the elevator coming up she shoves them in the drawer. It's hard to find good help these days. Now, what can I do for you, Cornelia?”
“You did say, did you not, that you would do anything to get one of Dancer's Flyby colts?”
“Yes, ma'am, I did say that, and I meant it. Short of murder, that is. The price doesn't matter. Would you like me to call my father in here? He can back me up on my offer. He's quite elderly now, and his sole purpose in life is to get a Triple Crown winner. I'd like to give him that if it's possible. I know he would dearly love to meet you and shake your hand.”
“Anything, Dillon, short of murder?”
“Anything short of murder. Name it and it's yours.”
Nealy leaned across the table to stare directly into Dillon Roland's eyes. “You really don't remember me, do you?”
“Of course I remember you. I congratulated you the day you won the Kentucky Derby. I was so in awe of you I was slobbering over myself. Your horse was magnificent. My own was a slug in comparison. I tried to get near you at the Belmont, but it was impossible. A Triple Crown now, that's something to take home.”
“I'm Nealy Coleman, Dillon. You're the father of my daughter, Emmie. Surely you remember the day you threatened to blow my head off with a shotgun if I ever told anyone. Now do you remember?”
Dillon slapped at his receding hairline. “Jesus H. Christ! I thought you looked familiar that day. I didn't connect the names. You look so . . .
different.
Listen, that was the scared kid in me talking back then. I would never have done a thing like that,” he blustered. “We had some fun. It's all in the past. Are you telling me you're holding a grudge against me for that?” His face registered total disbelief at his own question.
“Yeah, Dillon, that's exactly what I'm telling you. Emmie's birth certificate reads Emmaline Coleman. I think it should read Emmaline Roland. She's thirty-two. She might want to have children someday. She'll need to know her medical background. Don't think about denying it, Dillon. Today we have DNA. It's a costly process, but I can afford it. That's all I want from you. Nothing more.”
“But she's a . . . they said . . .”
Nealy's eyes narrowed. “Half-wit? Retarded? No. She's normal in every way. She talks a blue streak. I can produce medical records. She's married now. Emmie herself can file a lawsuit against you, make a claim, whatever. This, Dillon, is the ‘anything' I mentioned earlier.”
“For Christ's sake, Nealy, I have a family. My oldest son's wife is due to have a baby any day now. If this comes out, I'll never be able to live it down. That was over thirty-two years ago. If all you want is a name on a birth certificate, I can do that and have the records sealed. If you want me to go public, I can't do that. My wife would never understand. My father would never understand.”
“Which part? The part where you were going to blow my head off or the part where you denied you were Emmie's father or the part where I impregnated myself? I see, all of the above. The courts are very lenient these days in such matters. Okay, time for me to leave.”
“Does that mean you won't sell me the next foal from Dancer's Flyby?”
“Yep, Dillon, that's what it means. You really are a ring-tailed son of a bitch, aren't you? I guess I knew that when I came here. Oh, one other thing. Lordy, Lordy, how could I have forgotten? I'm moving all the Blue Diamond accounts. You know, you really are stupid, Dillon. I've been feeding those accounts to you little by little these past fifteen years. You have almost the whole ball of wax, and still you didn't catch on. You're up on it now, though, right? By the close of business tomorrow. Everything, Dillon. Don't leave any fractions either. I called my broker earlier. He positively salivated when I gave him his orders. Gee, I hope you manage to get yourself out of that junk-bond mess. See you around.”

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