The Fifth Avenue Series Boxed Set (7 page)

“I’m sorry,” Elizabeth said politely as Michael approached.
 
“But I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
 
Her voice was firm.
 
She ignored his hand.
 
“This is a private party.”

In the silence that fell, George and Celina turned to listen.
 
Leana watched Michael.
 
“I apologize for intruding,” he said.
 
“But I understand you’re raising money this evening for children with HIV, and I wanted to do something to help.”
 
He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a slip of paper.
 
He handed it to Elizabeth. “I hope this will.”

Elizabeth looked at the check, then coolly back at Michael.
 
“$100,000 is very generous,” she said.

“I work in the entertainment industry,” he said.
 
“HIV is prevalent there.
 
It’s the least I could do.
 
It’s a cause I believe in.”

Although Leana doubted he knew it, Michael Archer had just handed her mother five million dollars.
 
Perhaps six.
 
Once word got around that he had given her a check for $100,000, the other guests would be scrambling for their checkbooks, desperate not to lose face.
 
Elizabeth knew it, but she didn’t show it.

“I apologize,” she said to him.
 
“This is very kind of you.
 
We would be pleased to have you stay.
 
Would you?”

The relief that crossed Michael Archer’s face was unmistakable.
 
Leana lifted her chin at the same moment he turned to look at her.
 
Their eyes met and Michael smiled.
 
“Mrs. Redman,” he said, “it would be my pleasure.”

CHAPTER SIX

The old Buick coughed, wheezed and shook for several moments before it jerked to a halt and died in the heart of Manhattan.

Jack Douglas sat there, numb, as steam rose from the engine and the headlights dimmed into darkness.
 
He knew what was wrong with the car without checking the engine.
 
For weeks now, he had been meaning to have a new radiator and alternator installed, but he was so busy with work, he had put it off.
 
Naturally, both failed him on the night of George Redman’s party.

He would have to catch a cab.

He opened the glove compartment, plucked the invitation from a mass of crumbled papers and broken pencils, and searched for his wallet.
 
It wasn’t there.
 
He looked on the seat beside him, on the floor, in the pockets of his black dinner jacket and pants, and then remembered leaving it back at his apartment, out in full-view on the kitchen table, just so he wouldn’t leave it behind.

He could help but laugh.
 
Now he would have to walk.

He left the car where it had died, on the corner of Fifth and 75th Street, and started for The Redman International Building, which was over a mile downtown.
 
He knew his car would get towed, but he didn’t care.
 
Tonight, Jack Douglas had more important things on his mind.
 

Tonight might just change the rest of his life.

He had just passed 61st Street when lightning flashed and thunder rippled across the sky.
 
Jack looked up, felt the rising breeze on his face and quickened his step.
 
It had better not rain
, he thought.

But it did.

When the rain became wind-swept sheets, panic rose in him and he broke into a run, the rain pelting his lowered head.
 
With each passing motorist, he was sprinkled with the spray that flew off their wheels.
 
He ran seven blocks before The Redman International Building came into sight and when it did, Jack slowed.
 
If George Redman himself hadn’t sent him an invitation to tonight’s party, he would have passed on this and gone home.
 
But that wasn’t happening.

Last week, when he sold an unprecedented $500 million dollars worth of bonds to a client in France, he had become the financial world’s most revered species—a Big Swinging Dick.
 
The following morning, when the Journal named him Wall Street’s latest financial whiz, every investment firm in Manhattan tried luring him away from Morgan Stanley—but to no avail.

Jack refused the offers, determined to remain loyal to the firm that gave him his start. And then came the invitation from George Redman, asking him to come to the grand opening of the new Redman International Building.
 
“Congratulations on the Journal article,” George wrote on the invitation.
 
“And I hope you’ll come to the party.
 
I’d like to discuss a few things with you.”

And that was all it took.
 
Redman International was the world’s leading conglomerate.
 
If Jack was offered a job there, his career would be set.
 
So much for loyalty
, he thought.

As much as he didn’t want to, he stepped into the building and handed the doorman his damp invitation. The band wasn’t playing.
 
There was nothing but the rustle of silk, the light din of those who hadn’t seen him and the titter of those who had.
 
The doorman looked at him, then at the invitation and seemed to hesitate with indecision.
 
But then he smiled and said, “Have a pleasant evening, Mr. Douglas.”

“Right,” Jack said, and moved into the lobby.

A waiter stopped beside him.
 
“Champagne, sir?”

“Champagne, sir” was at the end of a ten-foot pole and conveyed the message: “You and your wet clothes and your dirty face are not welcome at this party.”

Although he preferred beer, Jack accepted a glass and toasted those who were rude enough to stare.
 
“Lovely evening,” he said, and smiled when they turned away. There was a hand on his arm.
 
Jack turned and saw Celina Redman.
 
“You look as if you could use a friend,” she said.

This morning, she was on the front page of the Times.
 
While Jack always considered her an attractive woman, he was delighted to find that Celina Redman was even prettier in person.
 
“And a shower,” he said after a moment.
 
“I got caught in the rain.”
 
He extended a hand, which Celina shook.
 
“I’m Jack Douglas,” he said.
 
“Glad to meet you.”
 

Celina returned the smile.
 
“Celina Redman.
 
And that was one hell of a profile the Journal did on you last week.
 
I was impressed.
 
My father invited you personally, didn’t he?”

Jack nodded.
 
“Afraid so.
 
My big break and look at me.
 
I’m a mop.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she said.
 
“Showing up shows you have guts.”

“I just wish I wasn’t wearing them on my jacket and pants.”
 
He looked around him.
 
“I should probably clean up before I meet your father.”

Celina looked at the dusting of mud and grime on his face and hands.
 
“I’ll tell you what—my parents have a triplex on the top floor.
 
If you’d like, you can clean up there and borrow something of my father’s.
 
You look to be about his size.”
 
She motioned toward the bank of elevators beside them. “Why don’t you come with me and I’ll see what I can find for you to wear.
 
I’m sure my father has something.”

When they arrived in the apartment, Jack followed Celina through rooms that looked as though someone had dismantled a museum to furnish them.
 
And yet the overall effect was surprisingly warm.
 
Like her.

“There’s a bathroom through there,” Celina said as they entered her parents’ bedroom.
 
“I’ll find you something to wear.”

Jack stepped into the bathroom and removed his wet jacket and damp shirt.
 
“I won’t be long,” he said.
 
“Will you stay?”

Celina stepped out of her father’s dressing room with a black dinner jacket and pants draped over one arm, a crisp white shirt over the other.
 
“You don’t think I’d miss seeing what you look like dry, do you?”
 
She entered the bathroom and handed him the clothes.
 
There was a moment when they appraised each other.
 
“Of course, I’ll stay.”

*
  
*
  
*

In the lobby, Diana Crane, Redman International’s chief corporate attorney, accepted a glass of champagne from one of the barmen, sipped it and then turned back to Eric Parker, Redman International’s chief financial officer.
 
He was still talking about the upcoming takeover of WestTex Incorporated.
 

Would he never shut up about it?
 
Was it impossible for him to have a good time?
 
Would you pay attention to me, please?

From the first day they’d met, she’d been attracted to him.
 
Eric Parker was tall and dark, his looks classically Greek, his frame muscular, almost sleek.
 
He had a healthy sense of humor, he was capable of holding an intelligent conversation and he had that incredible financial mind.

For the past two years, Eric Parker also had Celina Redman.
 
And before their recent break-up, there were rumors of marriage.

Lights flashed and the dance floor was plunged into darkness.
 
A murmur rose over the crowd and the band stopped playing.
 
Diana watched with Eric as a piercing beam of light slashed the darkness and cut through the glistening waterfall, sending ripples of blue light across the crowd’s expectant faces.

She nudged Eric. “What’s this?”

Eric nodded toward the waterfall.
 
“The money shot.
 
Watch.”

From behind the waterfall, Elizabeth Redman appeared to walk through it.
 
It was a clever illusion and the crowd cheered.
 
She stood there, elegant in black silk, the diamonds at her neck, wrists and ears winking in the light.
 
George came through the waterfall and was at her side, smiling as the energy in the room began to grow. The spotlight followed them to the center of the dance floor.

Cameras flashed.
 
Society applauded.

“She’s beautiful,” Diana said.
 

“She is,” Eric agreed.
 
“But not as beautiful as her daughter.”
 
He handed her his empty glass.
 
Diana had it refilled—this time without the ice.
 
When the band began playing “One Moment in Time,” there was another burst of applause from the crowd as George and Elizabeth started to dance.
 
Soon, other couples joined them and the floor became a swirling mass of glittering dresses and black tuxedos.

Diana reached for Eric’s hand.
 
“Let’s dance.”

Together, they moved about the dance floor, their steps light, graceful.
 
Diana looked up at Eric’s face, saw him smiling down at her and she smiled back.
 
He held her closer and Diana wondered if he knew that she was in love with him and had been for years.
 
He lowered his mouth to her ear.
 
Diana tensed and for a moment thought he was going to kiss her.
 
His words were an invasion when he spoke.
 
“When this gets back to her, do you think it’ll make her jealous?”