Sabrina's Clan (3 page)

He was frowning again. Even being called on the lie didn’t seem to move him. “It is true that in my time, the clans knew what we were.” He sounded like he was speaking to himself. Remembering. “We were accepted into the tribe because of what we did. This new world is so very different.”

“This is your time as much as that one was,” Sabrina said. “You’re alive and living in it.”

“Am I?” And there it was, the cynical edge she had suspected was there, out in the open. His tone was dry.

“Hey,” she said softly, alarmed at the bitterness and sadness in his face. “Damian and Nick
love
their lives. Just because you haven’t found your place yet….”

He was looking at her steadily, in a way that made her words fade. “Love conquers all?” he said. This time it wasn’t cynicism coloring his voice. There was a dangerous note in the soft words.

For the first time Sabrina realized he was still holding her arm. His fingers shifted, drifting over her bare skin beneath the sleeveless shirt.

It was like his barely there touch woke her up—not her mind, but her body. Between one heartbeat and the next she became abruptly aware of every inch of it and also how closely he was standing to her and exactly how tall he was. Even with her high heels, she still had to look up to meet his gaze.

She drew in a breath that was heated and burned on the way down to her lungs.

All she could think of was the urge to sway forward and press herself against him. It was driving reasonable, logical thought from her mind. She fought to not follow her instinct.

He was watching her, his gaze roaming over her face as if he was reading every thought as easily as print. His eyes, she could see now, were the softest gray, making them look colorless, except for a black border around them. They were mesmerizing and almost unearthly.

“Ah….” he breathed, as if he had discovered something. Perhaps he had.

She shivered.

He raised his hand, sliding it under her hair. He curled his fingers around the back of her neck. He didn’t touch her in any other way, yet her body tightened and her breath increased.

Was he going to kiss her?

Every nerve in her body fizzed at the possibility.

He had smooth, rounded lips. They looked soft. They parted just a little. “If I kiss you, it will be for the wrong reasons,” he breathed and she could hear his voice rumbling in his chest. They were so close they were almost touching. “Know that before you let this proceed.”

Sabrina tried to claw her thoughts together. “You’d have sex with a stranger who doesn’t like you?” she asked.

“That is everyone in this world.”

It was the weariness, the fathomless sadness in his words that allowed her to step away from him. She was shaking with arousal, her body pulsing with it, although sanity was returning. “You don’t let people in.”

“No one has ever asked to be let in.” He took a pace back himself and straightened up.

The tension, the magnetic force that had been beating between them was still there, only muted by more cerebral concerns. Sabrina frowned. “People don’t ask to be let in. You have to open the door and
invite
them.” She hefted her briefcase. “I am now late for my own committee meeting. I really must go.”

He stepped aside this time and waved toward the door.

“Don’t mess with my stuff!” she said over her shoulder as she hurried for the door, trying to get her legs to work properly.

* * * * *

Three hours later, Sabrina was back to trembling. This time it wasn’t the allure of sex driving her reaction…or perhaps, indirectly, it was. Procreation, rather than fun.

She stared at the report on the desk in front of her, trying to make sense of the words, even though Dr. Phillips had been more than clear about the meaning. “There has to be a mistake somewhere,” she said at last and pushed the report back to him. “I just had appendicitis and had my appendix out. It’s a simple operation.”

“Not in your case. You ignored the fever and the pain for three days, Sabrina,” Dr. Phillips said. His black face was patient and kind. He had already said this more than once in the year since she had got out of Emergency. He cut an odd figure with his Chucks and his suspenders. However, he was very, very good at his job.

“I had a meeting,” Sabrina murmured. “More than one.”

“I’m surprised you could even stay sitting in your boardroom chair,” Dr. Phillips replied dryly, tugging at the suspenders. “Although, you’re a very strong-willed woman, so perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised at all. Nevertheless, leaving the symptoms go unchecked let the fever build. You don’t remember being brought into Emergency?”

She shook her head. “Just waking up after the operation.”

“Which was complicated by a burst appendix and a raging infection, all of which have left their mark. Literally, in your case. The scaring to your fallopian tubes is extensive.”

She swallowed. “There’s no possibility I’ll ever have children?” she asked.

“You already have one. A daughter.”

“She…Chloe was adopted by my sister,” Sabrina said stiffly.

“You’re a modern career woman,” Dr. Phillips said kindly. “Were children a part of your plans?”

“Yes! Of course they were!” It had all been laid out in her mind years ago, when Riley had first started talking about making more of their lives than the basic wage jobs they were qualified for.

Riley had taught Sabrina to dream. First, college, then the great job, then more distantly in the future, the home in the suburbs and two children. There was even a dog jumping around the minivan and barking, in her imagination. Old streets, tree-lined. Neighbors. “Children are family,” she said slowly. For the first time it really, properly registered. The children in her imagination, the rosy cheeked cherubim smiling up at her….they would never exist.

Pain speared her chest.

Sabrina staggered to her feet and grabbed her briefcase off the chair next to her. “I…I have to go.”

“Perhaps we should talk about counseling, Sabrina,” Dr. Phillips said.

“Another time,” Sabrina said. Her face felt wooden and her lips uncooperative. “I have a…” She almost laughed. “I have a dinner meeting with the company’s biggest client.”

“Make another appointment,” Dr. Phillips called after her. “We can talk about it.”

Sabrina held back her response. Dr. Phillips was a nice man. Only people like Nyanther deserved unadorned truth.

What was the point of talking? It was a done deal. No children, no life. What was she even hurrying back to work for?

El Agustina wasn’t a trendy restaurant, although it had its share of loyal customers. Sabrina’s boss, Cory, was one of them, which probably explained his expanding middle. She had seen him eat a whole bowl of
chile con queso
by himself and go on to eat a main course afterward.

When Sabrina arrived at the restaurant, Cory was already at the table, wringing his hands. There was a glass of water in front of him and nothing else. “Is something wrong?” she asked him, unfastening her jacket. The thick faux pearl necklace and the high heels were her contribution to evening wear. She had debated whether to extend herself even that much, but habit had taken over. Her brain was spinning after Dr. Phillip’s news.

Cory mopped at his forehead with a handkerchief. “We’re going to be talking to Graham
Summerfield
,” he said in a melodramatic whisper. “Do you know how long I’ve been trying to get Summerfield Investments to even take a phone call?”

“And now their CEO is having dinner with you. Shouldn’t you be celebrating?” She caught the waiter’s attention.

Cory shook his head. “Maybe they’re just wasting my time, for amusement.”

“You’re a damn good finance manager, Cory,” she said firmly. She looked up at the waiter, a skinny Hispanic man with runaway acne. “Two shots of Jóven, please.”

He spoke quickly in Spanish and Sabrina just looked at him. “Excuse me?” she said flatly.

The waiter gave a little shrug. “We have lemons. No limes.”

“Actually, I didn’t ask for either,” she said stiffly.

As he hurried away, Cory looked at her. “Hard day?” he asked.

“It’s up there in the top ten,” she admitted and flipped open the menu.

“Here he is,” Cory said, his voice tight with tension. Then he gasped. “Oh my God!”

“What?” Sabrina looked over at the hostess’s desk. There were two men there, both in suits, both blond, both tall. One was middle-aged and she recognized him from photos and media footage. He was Graham Summerfield, CEO of Summerfield Investments. Most annual surveys of Wall Street placed him close to the top in terms of money, power and influence, even though Summerfield Investments was a family corporation.

The man in the blue suit who was with him was slightly taller and thicker across the shoulders. Sabrina had seen more than her share of over-priced designer suits. From across the room she could tell his was tailored and from the way the jacket hung around his waist and hips, she guessed it was probably European or British-made. The guy shopped on Saville Row, then. Full speed ahead and damn the expense.

She picked up the first shot of tequila the waiter had slid in front of her and tossed it back. It slid down her throat with a satisfying warmth.

The two men made their way through the open-plan restaurant. Graham Summerfield stopped at three tables on the way, shook hands, laughed, spoke shortly and moved on. He waved at several other diners.

Everyone was watching the two of them head over to their table. Maybe Cory was right to feel paranoid. Maybe there was a reason for picking such a public and popular restaurant in the heart of Wall Street on a weeknight.

Graham Summerfield stopped at the table and thrust out his hand toward Cory. “Cory, it’s good to see you,” he said jovially.

Cory lurched to his feet and took Summerfield’s hand.

Sabrina stood up, too. She glanced at the other man. He was wearing a blue tie with his blue suit and the tie exactly matched his eyes. Wow.

He was watching Graham Summerfield and Cory shake hands. Cory waved toward Sabrina. “This is my Director of Financial Reporting, Sabrina Castillo.” He said it the English way, pronouncing the ls as ls, not as a y as Spanish speakers did.

Graham Summerfield leaned over the table and shook her hand. He had a firm grip and didn’t try to break her hand the way many men did. Then he indicated the other man. “This is my nephew, Jacob Summerfield.”

“Jake,” the other man corrected, with a warm and sincere-looking smile. He shook Cory’s hand, then Sabrina’s. Like his uncle, he didn’t squeeze as if his hand was a vise. It was a short, simple shake. His flesh was warm and his hand large, making Sabrina feel petite, which didn’t happen very often. At five foot eight, petite just wasn’t one of her descriptors.

Even with her heels, she was still shorter than Jake Summerfield. He took the chair next to her and tilted his head to look at the shot glasses. “Tequila,” he said. “
Casa Dragones by the smell.”

“Yes, it’s
Jóven,” she confirmed. “You like tequila?”

“I like drinking it on the beach in Acapulco,” he said. “Preferably at sunset.”

Graham Summerfield shook his head. His mouth, Sabrina noted, stayed in a firm horizontal line. He wasn’t one for smiling, clearly. “Sunset is when the markets close. There are better places to be than on a beach with the tourists and hippies.”

Jake smiled at her. “He’s exaggerating. It’s our own private beach, that comes with the house. Do you know Mexico at all?”

Sabrina shook her head. “Born and raised in the mid-west,” she said shortly, hoping it would side-step the oh-you’re-an-orphan-such-a-shame sequence she had to go through with new people. “I’ve never been outside the States.” She’d never been able to afford a passport and the ticket. All her money had gone toward her education. She realized how her short statements would come across and tried to soften them. “I’ve seen the Rockies, once.”

“Sabrina is a dedicated professional,” Cory added. “One of my best.”

She let the praise slide by. Cory was merely trying to impress a client. Instead, she picked up the second shot and tossed it back.

The waiter hurried over to take drink orders.

“I’ll have two of the Jóven as well,” Jake said.

“It seems like a good way to start the meal,” Graham Summerfield said, putting the drinks menu down. He looked at the waiter. “Why don’t you bring a full bottle for us?”

The waiter looked at Sabrina and spoke in Spanish again.

“I don’t speak Spanish,” she said flatly, deeply annoyed.

Graham looked at her sharply. Cory looked panicked.

Jake spoke to the waiter in what sounded like perfectly good Spanish, then looked at her. “Lemons or limes?”

“They said they didn’t have any limes, earlier.”

“It seems they’ve found some.” Jake gave her an easy smile, showing white, peridontically perfect teeth, then finished with the waiter, who picked up the drink menus and hurried away.

Everyone went back to studying the menus, with some desultory conversation about weather and sports scores, neither of which interested Sabrina. The real conversation wouldn’t happen until the main meal had been served and the waiters left them alone.

The tequila arrived, with a small tray of shot glasses, the lime wedges and salt. The waiter broke the seal on the bottle and poured each of them a shot, then put the bottle in front of Graham. It seemed he had been nominated the head of the table.

Sabrina reached for her shot and would have drunk it immediately, except Jake held his glass up in the air. “To…?” he said.

“Sunsets,” she said shortly and drank.

Graham gave a moue of approval then threw back his shot with a practiced toss.

Cory sipped his. He wasn’t a drinker at all. He rarely moved beyond two or three red wine labels he knew well.

Jake opened his mouth a little to let the air play over his tongue. It was something the really practiced tequila drinkers did. The sippers, anyway.

“You’d be better off with a
Reposado. This is blanco. It’s only good for shots,” she told him.