Devotion - Billionaire Contemporary Romance Novel (23 page)

Like Madame van der Meer’s Royal Jewelry Collection,
she wanted to say, but instead, she only heard the waver in her voice.  She suddenly glanced down, pricked by pain.  The constriction around her finger had changed her finger from fleshy purple to stark white.

“Yes…I know,” Phillip said coolly without revealing more. “But there is no way that I can be there today.  I trust you are able to coordinate everything in my absence.”

Isabel listened and waited.  There was no rush in Phillip’s voice, which she took as her cue to push forward. “Yes, I’m about to go there now to be on-site to help Mario coordinate all the vendors.  But, of course, I was surprised to hear about the van der Meer Collection…”

Isabel’s voice trailed off as she stopped to listen to the long beat of silence on the other end of the line.

“Yes, it’s a fortunate development from last night.” His voice dropped, as if he was acknowledging the absence of communication between them.

“Yes, everything I know about it I’ve heard from Jett and Tami.  And of course, Giselle.”

“I expect that they should be able to fill you in—fully.”

Silence smothered the line.   Isabel paused and held her breath, wondering how much else she should say, or if it would be better to simply initiate an end to their conversation. Without warning, Phillip initiated its end for her.

“Is there anything else, Isabel?”

He asked it with a sensitivity that disarmed her, almost as if he was willing to hang onto the line forever until she was ready to express exactly what was in her heart. She suddenly noticed the scent of his cologne on surface of the phone’s receiver, and for a moment, it physically connected them as if they were standing in the same room.

“No, I hope I didn’t disturb you.”

Then, a strange sound of gurgling filled the background of Phillip’s location, followed by the rustling of blankets and the soothing words of a female voice.  Isabel pressed the phone to her ear, both certain and uncertain that she heard a child-like whimper of discomfort.

“I’m sorry, Isabel.  But I must go now,” he said with a hush, his first betrayal of agitation during their entire conversation. 

Concerned, she struggled to identify the strange noises. 
An abrupt slurp of suction?  Tiny gasps for breath?
Encouraging whispers of a woman
?

“Yes, of course,” Isabel whispered, fully expecting Phillip to hang up without saying goodbye.

“Isabel?” he quickly added, clinging onto her silence.

“Yes?”

“I look forward to seeing you tonight,” he said with haste.  “Especially in your new gown.  It will complement your eyes.”

Click
.

Isabel paused, waiting for the droning buzz of the disconnected line to confirm the end of their call. 

I look forward to seeing you tonight.

Formal and polite.  Subtle and sincere. Why had she called him on his private line in the first place?  She suddenly couldn’t remember.  Phillip’s even tone and his natural command over their conversation made all of her insecurities seem petty and irrelevant. 

Maybe the fault was her own
?  Maybe it was she who had seemed disloyal and he who had simply guarded himself against it.  But Phillip was always so guarded—walled behind evasive expressions and impervious glances—that it was impossible to ever know what he was thinking or feeling, much less his intentions for maintaining a sudden distance between them. And despite all the countless hours they had worked together, Isabel suddenly reflected on the fact that she knew absolutely nothing about his private life.  She had never seen his personal home.  She had never met any of his personal friends.  She had never heard him talk about his extended family or his life outside of work.  In fact, she had consciously avoided inquiring about any of it because she knew that he considered it an intrusion.  Not even his separation from Marlow—his fiancée of more than two years—was ever discussed until yesterday.  And even then, it had been barely acknowledged, then dismissed like a fleeting error of judgment, never to be repeated again. 

That had always been Phillip’s way of navigating their relationship, and one of the main reasons why she had gained his trust over the years; she never assumed it was her right to know more than he intended to share with her.  Now, Isabel pondered his mysterious absence and the final moments of their conversation.  She reflected on the unidentifiable noises in the background as well as the distraction in Phillip’s voice, and contemplated his decision to end the call without waiting for her goodbye.  Was this the same Phillip who she had come to know the past five years? Or was there something he was deliberately hiding from her? She hung up the phone and peered far out at the faceless statue of the goddess Ceres, looking down upon a city born from her strength. 
Yes, it was true…
She whispered to herself.  Perhaps she had seemed disloyal, but perhaps it was because it was difficult to maintain loyalty to a man who challenged her devotion at every turn while unveiling so little about himself in return. Suddenly, she no longer felt certain about anyone or anything in her life.  In fact, the only thing that seemed certain was that everything would come to an uncertain end tonight at the gala. 

Chapter Thirteen

Flashing bursts of white exploded like stars.

Isabel reached out and accepted the masculine hand, drawing her out from the pearly white Bentley and escorting her past the barrage of flashing cameras.

The photographers
. 

Isabel shielded her eyes and face.  Mario, the gala’s event planner, insisted that every Spears & Associates’ grand opening merited no less than a dozen reporters and photographers.  Dressed in her scarlet evening gown and shoulder-wrap natural mink, she clearly had been mistaken for someone more press-worthy, like the Mayor’s mistress or one of the Litzker heiresses.  Her escort whisked her up the Persian red marble staircase of The Old Main Post Office and ushered her towards its grand Art Deco entrances.  In the stark daylight, the three-million-square-foot building spanned across the entire city block of Van Buren Avenue like an imposing fortress, supported by the classical repetition of its towering entryways, each with a sparkling gold-plated revolving door.  Now, in the chill of the evening night, strategic spotlights spliced upwards along the building’s bold vertical lines and its rigid granite symmetry.  Isabel’s escort deposited her in front of one of the revolving door, its cylinder of polished bronze and glass twirling her into the lobby like a time machine.

Isabel pushed out of the revolving doors and lifted up her eyes through the soaring iconic Grand Atrium.
Breathtaking
.  The exterior spotlights poured in through the grandiose, three-story window panes and flared across the Italian Carrara marble floor, pristine like a sheet of ice.  Her eyes scanned the gold-foiled walls, glistening with rejuvenated glory.

He knew how gorgeous it could be
, she thought with a subtle smile.  Even when she doubted him, Phillip never deterred from his vision of how spectacular it could be.  And she knew he had one mandate for the project from the very beginning—every original detail of the dilapidated lobby would be researched and restored, regardless of the cost.  He had started its restoration just after she started working for him, treating it like his secret passion that he rarely discussed, but that she knew always lingered there in the background, awaiting fulfillment.  She saw the drafting proposals, the budgets, and the expenses receipts.  And finally, just days after her first work anniversary, he brought her there to reveal his ultimate vision for it with her.

It had taken four more long years…
Her eyes traced the regal bronze emblems of the postal service—air, land, water, rail, and even pony express—mounted above the clerk stations.  She remembered each one’s corroded surface and lackluster patina, and questioning Phillip’s ability to restore them.

“Symbols of the American spirit to endure,” he had replied with his British sarcasm while his sparkling eyes and wry smile hinted at his secret affinity for romanticism. 

He had endured
,
and he had been right
.  Everything was beautiful—stunningly beautiful.

“Isabel!”

She turned and saw the unfamiliar woman rushing towards her.

“Holy Moly, sexy lady, look at you!” the woman cried out, gawking at Isabel’s crimson gown with its mermaid silhouette and sweeping train.

“Tami?”  Isabel gazed at her heavy makeup, rhinestone hairpiece, and beaded purple and black flapper dress. Isabel had never seen Tami without her glasses, much less wearing cherry red lipstick and dressed in anything that revealed her cleavage. “What happened to your grandmother’s vintage cardigan?”

“Jett told me if I tried to wear it, he would fire me,” she replied, rolling her eyes. “So instead, he took me to that crazy expensive clothing boutique,
Gatsby
, and told me to pick out the most expensive dress I could find.  Look at me, I feel like I want to dance,” she shimmied the beaded fringe of her dress back and forth, “which would seriously be the most embarrassing thing ever, but whatevah.  Oh my God…is
that
the dress that Phillip picked out for you?”

“Yes,” Isabel said, tracing over the raspberry sequins embedded into the silk tulle of her gown. “Have you seen him?”

“Negative.  I thought he was coming with you?”

“No, he sent the dress to the house with a note saying he would meet me here.” Isabel quickly scanned the crowd, expecting to spot Phillip’s distinct profile in the crowd.  She noted all the familiar faces of her guests as the swirling decorative lighting ebbed and flowed with the rhythm of the live jazz band.  But Phillip was nowhere in sight.

“Where’s Jett?” Isabel asked.

Tami led Isabel’s gaze across the lobby to the hors d’oeuvres
table. “Schmoozing with every politician that he can and using Giselle’s tight little ass to lure them in—completely baseless and deplorable, but unsurprisingly effective.  That, and the temptation of these amazing stuffed crab and sausage mushrooms. Delicious, by the way.”  Tami brushed away the crumbs from the remaining bite from her lips.  “I’ve already stuffed my face with four.”

“My word,” Isabel exclaimed, pawing at Tami’s gloved hand for a closer look at the square cut green stone on her ring finger. “Is that from Jett, too?”

“Negative.  It’s from Madame van der Meer’s collection.  I know, can you believe it?” Tami bragged, wiping her thumb across its broad emerald. “I just met her—totally my fairy godmother in every way. She was wearing it and she saw me drooling over it, so she offered to let me borrow it for the rest of the night.  I promised her that if I dropped it into the chocolate fountain I would fish it out.  Madame van der Meer laughed.  Jett turned bright red like he was about to have a coronary. Have you seen the rest of the collection?”

Isabel shook her head. “The security guards still hadn’t arrived with the display cases when Giselle and I were here this afternoon.  Mario sent me home early to get ready, promising me he’d take care of everything.”

“Well, wait until you see it.  She’s even got a bejeweled fan that was owned by Marie Antoinette. ” Tami clasped onto Isabel’s elbow and guided her down the lobby towards the jewelry display cases, mounted atop the former postal clerk counters and lighted from above like priceless museum artifacts.  “Everyone’s buzzing about the fact that it’s a brilliant tourism draw.  Jett even got Fifi Litzker to agree to lunch tomorrow with her lawyers.  Fifi said that she wants to settle on an exclusive tenant agreement to build out her new spa & hotel chain on the second and third floors. If Madame van der Meer is a part of the project, Fifi Litzker wants to be in, too.”

“Fifi Litzker is exactly the type of elite tenant that this building needs.” Isabel peered inside the nearest jewelry case at its royal coronation tiara, matching diamond necklace, and petite ruby scepter. “Mario did a great job displaying everything.  No one does lavish better than Mario.”

“Seriously true.” Tami nodded. “Have you seen the fourteen-tier cheesecake at the other end of the lobby?  Too bad he’s gay or else I’d force him to marry me, just so that I don’t end up being forty without someone planning me a ridiculously extravagant wedding.”

“Gay and taken,” Isabel confirmed.

“Aren’t all the good ones?” Tami sighed.

“Not this good one...” the masculine voice purred from behind them. “Hello, lovely ladies.”

“Hello, Gary,” Isabel replied, exhaling with relief.  It wasn’t one of the presumptuous politicians on her guest list.  Phillip’s lawyer she could handle. 

“And heeeelloooo lovely dress.” He eyed Isabel, scanning her up and down, taking in the full view of her gown and its strapless cinched bodice.

“Thank you.  It was a gift.”

“Well, someone certainly knows how to make you look delicious.”

“From Phillip,” Isabel clarified, raising up Gary’s chin—and his gaze—back to her face.  “But thank you.  You do always know how to make a woman feel special.”

“In more ways than one.”  He smirked, his flirting honeycomb eyes drifting down her bare shoulders again because he knew he could get away with it. 

“Gary, you do realize that good in this context does not mean ‘manwhore.’” Tami downed her champagne flute and handed it off to Gary. Her filter was waning—fast.

“I’m a lawyer, my sassy little friend.  I’ve been called much, much worse.”

“
Touché
,” Tami lobbed back at him, pulling his tuxedo tie out of alignment before stumbling away from him.  “Speaking of manwhores, I better go back and check in with Jett before I insult any more of his colleagues.  Isabel, if you see me passed out in the corner, rescue me before I end up making out with someone embarrassing.”

“Not to worry, Tami,” Gary interjected, calling after her.  “I’m only interested in one woman tonight.” He settled his gaze onto Isabel.

“I’m flattered,” Isabel replied, adjusting his tuxedo tie. “But I know you prefer blondes, and I don’t double date.”

“Tonight, I prefer brunettes,” he corrected her, admiring the way she re-tied his tuxedo bow with perfection.  “And you’ll be comforted to know that I’m flying solo.” He swept his arm around her waist and ushered her along the sleek marble floors like her personal escort. “Direct orders.”

“Direct orders? From who?”

Gary gazed down at her with amusement. “Who do you think?”

Isabel confirmed her suspicion with silence. 

“He asked me to meet you because he was coming late.”  Gary turned and surveyed the room, noting the obese man near the dessert table, who was laughing loudly and drinking heavily.  Gary nodded at him in acknowledgement.  The obese man raised his tumbler in return.

“Ahhh, I see…” Isabel replied. “Phillip still hasn’t forgiven me for throwing a drink in Alderman Madison’s face last year at the Mayor’s Christmas party.”

“I’m fairly certain Phillip has forgiven you.  It’s more a question of making sure that Madison doesn’t get the opportunity to get that close to you again—as well as a few less desirable guests.”

Shielding her like a body guard, Gary drew Isabel against his chest as if he was protecting her from something or someone.  But she resisted his embrace when her eyes settled upon the charismatic laughter from the man in the conspicuous white tuxedo—
Eliot Watercross
.  He was chatting with Norton and a stately elderly woman dressed in a black empress dress, its bustle accentuated with peacock feathers.  She wore a black beaded shawl draped over her drooping shoulders, and an Egyptian-inspired diamond tiara on her head. 
Madame van der Meer
.  Eliot’s lion green eyes shifted away from the conversation and seized onto Isabel like he was calling her to him.

Isabel attempted to circle away from Gary’s stalking body. “I’m going to have to work the room, Gary, especially in Phillip’s absence.”

“The room is working itself,” he countered. “Why not relax and enjoy the scenery.  And the company.”

His protective embrace suddenly felt familiar—too familiar.  Isabel glanced up into his light brown eyes, remembering that he went to Harvard Law School.  Like a reflex, she pushed back against him, seeking refuge from their private corner.  His chest was hard and toned; Isabel suddenly noticed his athletic build and his desire to contain her.

“Gary, is this really about protecting me?  Or is there something else going on here?”

Gary confronted her distrustful gaze until he could no longer defy her direct challenge.

“What do you think about the van der Meer collection?” he suddenly asked.

“I think it’s lovely, but I was completely kept out of the loop about it.”

“The deal isn’t completely closed, you know.  I’m still working on it with her lawyers, and already, we’re hearing that a rival has made her a competing offer.”

“A competing offer?” Isabel repeated.  “From who?”

Gary glanced across the room to Eliot Watercross, who whispered something into Madame van der Meer’s ear, which she accepted with a touch of her hand on his arm like she was receiving assurance from a favorite nephew.

“It’s all cheery smiles and fairytale parties now,” Gary said, lowering his voice and turning towards the display cases. “But at the end of the day, it’s a dangerous game; if Phillip loses the van der Meer deal after publicly announcing the partnership tonight, he’ll never recover the momentum it’s generating to secure other high-profile tenants like Fifi Litzker who will drive the second and third phases of the renovation. Three million square feet is a lot of space to fill, and if you’re Phillip Spears, you can’t fill it with big box retailers and parking spaces.”

“Sounds like a big dilemma,” the voice cut into their conversation.

Isabel turned squarely into Eliot’s chest. His green eyes flashed with the overhead lights.  He peered at Isabel over the rim of his brandy while crunching down on his ice.

“Perhaps Phillip should rethink renovating a postal factory with zero historic and architectural significance,” Eliot said, taking in Isabel’s revealing neckline. “Good evening, Bella.  You look ravishing tonight.”

Isabel lowered her eyes, feeling the blush in her cheeks match her crimson dress.

“Nice to see you, Gary,” Eliot said flatly. “But I hope you’re not supposed to serve as an acceptable substitute for the man of the hour. Fashionably late to his own party, I presume? Taking a cue out of my own playbook because it takes a special blend of balls and arrogance.”