Brilliant (14 page)

T  W  E  N  T  Y  -  E  I  G  H  T

Saturday morning.

I made a large cup of hot cocoa, two slices of buttery cinnamon toast, and after indulging myself in those pleasures, went into the workroom for my weekly torture session.

I pulled my tiny, titanium laptop out of the safe and checked my personal e-mail. I felt particularly optimistic. I don’t know if it was because of the successful switch—the necklace had finally gone for 5 million pounds, and I had all its precious, priceless Kashmirs in my vault—or the huge haul of stones from Mrs. Fullerton’s safe. Or the lucky escapes. I wondered how the Samaritan Burglar was feeling. There hadn’t been anything on the news about any robberies or murders, so thankfully I must not have killed him and he must have got- ten away before she got home. But there also wasn’t any story about a Renoir showing up at any police precinct, so maybe it wasn’t really him. Maybe it was just a common criminal. Finding Owen waiting at my front door certainly caught me up short, and watching Michael break into my building so quickly and professionally not only gave me the creeps but also disturbed me because he was a thug in livery and would have no compunction about breaking into my apartment as well. So actually, based on that, there was no good reason why I should have felt so happy this morning, but I did. I wakened feeling today would be a special one.

As the phone found the satellite, and the satellite found the server, and it all hummed along at high speed, I knew something big was going to happen—I could feel it. I drummed my fingers on my lips and waited impatiently.

What was I going to do when I got the message? What would it say? Hello? Are you my mother? Would I immediately pick up the phone? Would I faint? Or cry? I didn’t really know what a mother would do, since mine never did anything but get drunk and lock me out of the trailer. Now I know she was nothing but a kid herself. It was a thousand years and an entire lifetime ago. I was a different person. The Kick Keswick I was born as no longer existed. I couldn’t even remember how she felt about things, or what she looked like. I couldn’t stir up any anger, passion, or even curiosity. I’d read about how mothers should act and feel, seen movies and TV shows. So, if I were to get an e-mail from some long-abandoned child, I wondered if I’d automatically know what to do, or if my actions and emotions would be copied, counterfeit. Ah, finally, the connection was made. I clicked the e-mail button.

“Come on. Come on,” I muttered. It seemed to take forever. No new messages.

Hell.

I blinked my eyes a few times, cleared my throat, signed off, and tucked the whole affair away in my jam-packed vault.

I couldn’t get out of the workroom fast enough, and as soon as I had the door locked behind me and walked into my bedroom, my attitude improved. Sunlight spread across my golden yellow satin bedcover, giving it a comforting glow, and sparkled off the embossed bindings of my books. I decided to feel lively and happy in spite of my disappointment. So what if I didn’t have a message, I hadn’t ever gotten one before. It wasn’t going to wreck my day. Know why? Today was going to be special because I had plans. So what if it was a business meeting. It was Saturday, and the sun was shining, and I was going to do something more than my London-based Saturday routine of errands, which I love, but this was an unaccustomed break. I hated even the slightest hint someone could affect my patterns, but I had to admit, I was looking forward to the drive to the country. Okay, maybe I was a little bit looking forward to seeing Owen, too. He was becoming a flame I couldn’t resist.

T  W  E  N  T  Y  -  N  I  N  E

“Ready?” He shouted through the intercom.

“Ready. I’ll be right there.”

“Bring a jacket, I’ve got the top down.”

“Right.”

As far as I can tell, most females—young girls, young women, grown women, and so forth—daydream from time to time about the same sorts of things, mostly revolving around romance, revenge, money, and power. There seems to be a kind of sequence, depending on the age of the dreamer.

When you’re young, say from sixteen to thirty or so, there’s the romance/revenge dream: a beautiful wedding, your beautiful wedding to be specific, to a dashing, rich fellow, the big catch who kept slipping the loop. But in your dream, you’re the one who gets him because you’re the only one who didn’t need him, and now you’re the center of attention and can give the bird to all the boyfriends who dumped you, and all the girls who stole your boyfriends away right from under your nose using every low-down, underhanded female trick in the book, and now the big man everyone wanted is waiting for you at the far end of the aisle. And Vera Wang made your dress.

And there’s the professional, career-oriented dream that has more to do with power and revenge than romance. It takes place at a board of directors meeting, for instance, where, after a quick, vicious, masterful, political battle, you’re elected chairman and CEO, beating out all the men, most of whom you promptly fire, and the rest of whom you simply force to stay and suffer. Maybe you even kick them in the shins occasionally. And your Armani suit fits like a glove and you have a professional gym installed in the empty office next to yours, empty because you fired the creep whose office it used to be who tried to make your life miserable and who’s now selling timeshares at some second-rate, Bulgarian ski resort.

Now that I’m older, the third kind of fantasy—the power, romance, money version—has become my particular favorite. It goes something like this: You drive your Panther V-12 Madrigan convertible to the train station to pick up the guy (possibly the same guy who could have been, but wasn’t, waiting at the far end of the aisle twenty years ago) who’s arriving to spend an afternoon, or the day, or a weekend, whatever, at your country house. You seduce each other on a cashmere blanket under a flowering apple tree on your farm, in your orchard, before, during, and after a couple of nicely chilled bottles of Le Montrachet and some cold chicken sandwiches which your cook has prepared with creamy homemade mayonnaise and the crusts cut off. After which, he gives you a lovely brooch. Then he takes a nap in his room and you take a nap in yours and you don’t see each other again until the cocktail hour.

Well, this morning when I got downstairs, it certainly wasn’t that dream, but it wasn’t bad. Owen held the door of his black Panther V-12 Madrigan for me while I lowered myself into the calf-leather seat.

“Nice car,” I said.

“I shouldn’t be driving it myself, I should’ve left it in the inventory.” He circled around the front and climbed in behind the wheel. I think he was wearing Cary Grant’s cologne. “If we could just push ten more of them off the line a month, we wouldn’t be in the position we’re in today.”

“You can go ahead and release yourself from the guilt, Owen, and enjoy the car. A single Madrigan one way or the other isn’t going to make the slightest difference. Neither will ten.”

“I don’t need you to remind me.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“Do you want me to put the top up? It’s probably going to get pretty cold once we’re on the M-4.”

“Absolutely not. It’s perfect out.” I tied my scarf snugly over my head.

“Aren’t you worried about your hair?”

“Not in the slightest.”

My reward was one of those sunrise smiles that set the world aglow. “Terrific,” he said. Then he slipped the stick into first gear, and we glided away from the curb as though we were floating on air.

“This car is magnificent,” I said, while we worked our way through traffic toward the M-4. “Are you happy with the way it handles?”

“Everything but snow—it’s a disaster. Fortunately, it’s not much of a problem around here, but in other markets, it’s an issue. Even snow tires don’t make a difference. It’s ludicrous that people driving a hundred-thousand-dollar car have to put eighty-pound bags of sand in their trunks just to get out of the drive. But it doesn’t seem to be fixable.”

“Really.” I could have told him that. I have a V-12 Madrigan convertible of my own in France. Dark green. I love my car so much, I think it’s possibly a little sick.

He pushed it up to a hundred on the highway, making it too windy to talk, which was fine with me because I found myself being so drawn to Owen, so physically attracted, I’m not sure I could have spoken anyhow. I was filled with such an aching and a longing that I had to concentrate on restraining myself. Maybe it was the car. Maybe it was the remnants of my adrenaline glow from the night before, or from the dozens and dozens of stones worth millions and millions of dollars that lay in the dark of my safe, or from the sense of well-being I awoke with. I don’t know, but whatever it was, the ride had become sensuous and arousing, and I found myself looking for flowering apple trees along the highway, even though it was wintertime, and thinking thoughts that gave me hot flashes. Maybe it was watching him handle the car. His hands were sure and strong, firm in their movements. His fingers gripped the steering wheel and gearshift with quiet assurance, and I pictured them moving across my body with that same confidence, the sure knowledge he knew exactly where to go and what to do. I felt them caressing my breasts and moving down my body, taking charge of every part of me. I felt his lips on me. I closed my eyes and leaned my head back and listened to the wind.

I became aware of my
Pasha
nestled close to my heart, its faceted edges grounding me, reminding me to control myself. I opened my eyes and began counting the roadside markers. By the time we exited for Henley-on-Thames, I was sufficiently frozen—my fires had smoldered to embers.

“We’ve got a few minutes,” Owen said, as we approached the storybook town. “Let’s grab a coffee.”

“Great idea.”

We ducked into an ancient little breakfast spot, with low ceilings and lace curtains along leaded windows. The room smelled homey, like slightly burned, buttered toast with honey.

“This meeting won’t be long, but I need you there to keep the minutes—it could get complicated. I’m sorry to wreck your Saturday. I’m sure you have a number of pressing social engagements, you’re so in demand.” He made no effort to hide his sarcasm.

“Actually, I do have a lot going on”—I laughed—“and you cannot imagine how sorry I am if that offends you. We will be back by noon, won’t we?”

“Absolutely.” He dropped a sugar cube into his double espresso and slowly stirred. “Also, I wanted you to come with me today because I have a plan, an idea, that I put into place secretly several weeks ago, that I think could rescue Panther and Ballantine’s. I’d like your input.”

“What is it?”

“I’d rather just show it to you.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” I replied, wondering what on earth he could possibly do without my knowledge. “You’ve aroused me. I mean, you’ve aroused my curiosity.” Oh, God. I don’t think he heard the slip, but I turned to look out the window just in case, just so I wouldn’t have to make eye contact with him for a moment or two.

Whatever it is, I thought, it couldn’t be much of a secret. After all, we’re together most of the time, and the rest of the available time on his schedule I booked for him. Was it possible Owen was a man of secrets? He didn’t seem the type, but then, I probably didn’t seem like a woman of secrets, either, and I’ll bet I’ve got more than he has.

“Like what?” he said.

My mind was a million miles away. “I’m sorry. ‘Like what’ what?”

“I was saying, like what kinds of social engagements do you have this afternoon?”

“Just this and that,” I said vaguely. “Lunch and an opera matinee. Cocktails and dinner this evening. Just regular Saturday kinds of things. Why, what are you up to?”

“Same.” He tossed off the coffee. “Let’s go.”

T  H  I  R  T  Y

The Panther Automobile plant sat on seventy-four hundred acres behind a solid wall of greenery. The only indication there was any- thing at all behind the impenetrable screen of trees and foliage was a sign every fifty feet or so that said, “PRIVATE PROPERTY. CANINE PATROL. VIDEO SURVEILLANCE.” The main gate materialized out of nowhere, and it was as well protected as the entrance to a top secret military installation. Four uniformed men, armed with machine guns, waited to greet us: two in the guardhouse and two by the gate holding on to German shepherds who strained to get off their leashes and rip our throats out.

“Have you been here before?” Owen asked me, as the guards approached, one on either side of the car.

“No.”

“It’s a whole different world. Just give him your driver’s license.”

“I don’t have one.”

“What?”

“I don’t have a driver’s license.”

“What do you mean? You left it home?”

“No. I mean I don’t have one. I don’t drive.”

Owen looked at me as though I’d been dropped onto his head from outer space. “You don’t know how to drive?” He couldn’t seem to grasp it.

I shook my head.

“You don’t know how to drive?” he repeated.

“What on earth is your problem?” I muttered under my breath. It seemed to me that the guards were getting a little edgy. “It’s not that big a deal.”

“Well, you’ve got something with your picture on it, right?”

“Yes, my health card.”

“Then use that.”

“Fine.” I handed my card out the window. “Sorry,” I said to the guard. “It’s not much of a picture.”

Guy didn’t crack a smile. Just handed it back.

“Are you going to want to use the track, Mr. Brace?”

“Is there anyone else on it?”

“No, sir. Not this morning.”

“Then, yes. I’ll take Miss Keswick on a quick tour.”

“Very well. I’ll let control know.”

“Thanks.”

We purred through the gates into the top secret world of the Panther and proceeded down a treeless boulevard toward a red stoplight that had barriers with flashing red lights running along the top, similar to those at a railroad track.

“As you can see,” Owen explained, “it’s all cleared out through this area so we can see if there’s anyone on the track and they can see us, although they’re not supposed to worry about if we’re out here or not. They have the right of way.”

We rolled to a stop. A whistle shrieked loudly enough to raise the dead, lights began to flash, and the barrier rose slowly. The stoplight turned green. Owen turned onto the track, which was as wide as the M-4, and pressed the accelerator. Within four seconds we were going sixty, within ten, a hundred and twenty. His concentration on the road and the car was absolute as we zoomed past various buildings, identified by small signs that passed in such a blur it was almost impossible to read them: PAINT SHOP, RESEARCH, WAREHOUSE, ASSEMBLY PLANT, FINISH PLANT, INTERIOR. Before long, he’d pushed the car to one hundred and sixty miles an hour but it felt like twenty-five—nothing rattled, nothing shimmied, nothing budged. The car was an animal. The sexy feelings returned. He pushed it faster, and took a split second to glance at me. I smiled and fought a shiver that seemed to have concentrated itself in the pit of my stomach.

I don’t know how many miles we’d covered, the track ran through all sorts of terrain and elevations, but at some point, Owen took his foot off the accelerator and shifted down into fifth gear. The engine didn’t scream, didn’t whine, didn’t overburden itself, it just powered down, and by the time we turned into the main administrative area, at a sedate city speed, it was humming like a pussycat.

“Well,” he said. “What’d you think?”

“I think I’d like to do it again.”

“You know, most of the girls I’ve brought out here and taken on the track start screaming for me to slow down once I get it over a hundred.”

“Well, I’m a woman. That’s the difference.”