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Authors: Diana Diamond

BOOK: Good Sister, The
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“I said that?”
“In substance. She couldn’t remember the exact words.”
“Then it wasn’t me. Everyone remembers my exact words.”
He turned abruptly onto a side road, downshifted without a clank or a shudder, and aimed the car up a narrow road where no one had bothered to paint a dividing line. A minute later and they were into switchbacks, using just the bottom of the gearbox as they climbed into the mountains. The hint of a smile grew into a wide boyish grin. Each time the back wheels skidded out toward the edge, caught a bit of traction, and fired the car up toward the next turn, O’Connell burst into laughter. “They should break the knuckles of anyone who tunes a car without being Italian,” he said. Jennifer could only peer down over the edges and wonder how far the car would fall before it hit the wall of the cliff and began tumbling.
They crested the top and came to a long road that wandered along the seam of the mountain. They could see ahead for at least a mile, where another series of switchbacks would take them up to the next peak. O’Connell downshifted, slowing the convertible until it seemed to be standing still at forty. Then he touched the brake and pulled to the side, a few feet from the edge of the steep slope. “Here, you try it. It will drive you mad with pleasure.”
“Me? No way.”
“Well, then, we’ll have to walk back, won’t we? Because my heart can’t take another minute. The thrill is killing me.”
He bounded over his door into the road and around to Jennifer’s door. “Nothing to it, really,” he said, helping her out, “once you get used to the clutch.”
She opened the door to get in, then adjusted the seat. “How long does it take to get used to the clutch?”
“Maybe an hour. You’ve probably noticed that Italians have one leg bigger than the other. That’s why they walk around in
circles.” He slouched down in the seat and closed his eyes as if planning a nap.
Jennifer tried the clutch. It didn’t go down easily. Then she went through the gears. They were as precise as clockwork, and the lever had to be fitted carefully. She turned the key and tried to settle herself into the sensuous hum of the engine. “Don’t doze off, Padraig. If I don’t have this down by the time we reach the next switchback, I’m going to start walking.”
“Not to fear. By then I won’t be able to tear your fingers off the wheel.”
She started slowly, shifting carefully up to third, which gave her all the speed she could handle. She eased into the road and steered like she was trying to keep the car on rails. O’Connell’s eyes remained serenely closed. If he was anxious, he was a better actor than he let on. She dared a bit more throttle, and when the engine played back a sharp note, she forced the clutch and dropped the gear shift into fourth. Eighty kilometers. Hardly moving for the Ferrari, but breakneck for the road. And the next round of switchbacks was approaching fast.
“Padraig?”
He opened one eye.
“I don’t think I can handle these turns.”
He closed it. “God,” he mumbled, “but you’re exciting when you’re frightened.”
She let the engine run down and tried a downshift. The gearbox growled but obeyed. She steered into the turn and added power to straighten out of it. And then she was gone, through the first gate and on to the next switchback.
“Whee!” She laughed.
“It only gets better,” Padraig said. He sat up suddenly and looked straight at her. “Nothing is as satisfying as the face of a woman who feels the excitement building.”
“It’s terror, Padraig,” she answered.
“No, it’s not. Not for one moment. It’s excitement, and if you give in to it, then you’re headed for the ride of your life.”
“I’m not sure,” she said as she headed into the next turn.
“No one’s ever sure,” Padraig answered.
She downshifted, tore into the curve, and felt the rear end beginning to drift. Her instinct was to brake, which might have been fatal, so she forced herself to add power. The rear tires chirped as the car fired out of the turn and raced on up the hill. Jennifer broke into a broad smile.
“Okay,” Padraig said. “Pull off whenever you’re ready. I’ll take over.”
“No way,” she answered. “There’s a dozen more turns ahead.”
“I knew you’d never give it back.”
“It’s your fault. You told me to do it.”
He slumped back into the seat. “Women are always blaming me, when all I ever do is show them their potential.”
“Hang on!” There was another turn coming up.
She drove for nearly an hour, climbing higher and higher, until she reached the turn at the top of a mountain.
“Oh my God!” She braked to a skidding stop, the nose of the car pointing out over the edge. “Will you look at that.”
O’Connell was already looking at the Mediterranean coast spread out before them. Below was Monaco, a tiny smudge of activity with the royal palace visible on the edge of a cliff. To the left was the Italian Riviera, behind the industrial waterfront of Genoa. To the right, the red rooftops of Nice. Straight ahead, the cool blue of the Mediterranean, reaching all the way out to a pale blue sky.
“First prize,” Jennifer said. “The most beautiful world I’ve ever seen.”
He had turned away from the seacoast and was looking back at her. “First prize,” he told her. “You stir feelings of wonder that I wouldn’t share even with my psychiatrist.”
Jennifer shook her head playfully. “Padraig, you could score in a convent.”
“I have,” he answered, “but this has nothing to do with scoring.” He leaned across the console, took her face between his
palms, and kissed her gently, first on the tip of her nose and then on the edge of her lips. He stared at her for seconds that passed like hours and then smiled. Not his signature flash of white, but a soft smile that was almost sad. “Take me home,” he said, “before I lose my devilish image.”
JENNIFER WAS back at the hotel in time to tell Catherine and Peter about her tour of the Maritime Alps with Padraig O’Connell.
“A Ferrari Three Eighty.” Peter whistled. “You’re in the big leagues of motoring.”
“When’s your next date with the great Irish bard?” Catherine asked.
“Nothing definite. Not till ‘our paths cross again,’ as he put it.”
“Which will probably be this afternoon.”
Jennifer smiled. “I hope so. He’s fun.”
“That’s what all the ladies say,” Peter told her.
“Oh, I know I’m just this week’s game,” Jennifer admitted. “But I’d like to get a full week.”
Catherine smiled. “Well, I’ll give the devil his due. I’ve never seen you happier, and it looks as if Padraig O’Connell gets most of the credit.”
In the morning, Jennifer went back to the basic black dress that Padraig had said showed off her best asset. She was sure he’d find a reason to stop by the hall, and she had already decided to leave with him when he did. The festival was winding down, and the traffic through the displays was light. Let someone else answer the questions while she enjoyed whatever Padraig had planned for the day.
She stopped short as she exited the hotel’s glass doors. Parked at the curb directly in front of her was a bright red Ferrari convertible in showroom condition. Either Padraig had had yesterday’s
car washed and detailed, or he was starting the day with a fresh model. She looked around anxiously to see where he was lurking.
“Miss Pegan?” The English was accented, carefully pronounced by a middle-aged man in a dark suit. She nodded.
“I’m Giovanni, from Ferrari. The dealership here in Cannes.”
“Hi!” She looked over his shoulder, still searching for O’Connell. Then she noticed the key ring that Giovanni was holding in front of her face.
“Mr. O’Connell says that you should take more chances.” He dropped the keys into her hand and took an envelope from his jacket. “This is the title and the European Union registration. I offered to take you for a demonstration, but Mr. O’Connell said you already drive better than I do.”
She stood openmouthed, bewildered.
“I’ll move it for you if you like. This is a no parking zone, and in Cannes even Ferraris get tickets.”
“Where is Mr. O’Connell?”
Giovanni shrugged. “I have no idea. He was waiting outside when we opened, but he left after we finished the paperwork.”
She scanned once more, hoping that Padraig would step out from behind a bush or from around a corner, but there was still no sign of him. She gave the keys and title back to the auto dealer. “Yes, please, park it for me. And leave the keys at the desk.” She walked quickly up the boulevard to O’Connell’s hotel.
“He checked out this morning,” the desk clerk said, painfully sorry to be giving her disappointing news.
“He can’t,” Jennifer answered. “He has appearances, commitments …”
The clerk held up his hands in despair. “Monsieur O’Connell is …” Then he shrugged. Jennifer could fill in
delightfully irresponsible
, which seemed to be the clerk’s meaning. Or perhaps there had been other women asking for him and he was trying to let her down easily.
She managed a smile, but she was amazed by how disappointed she was when she turned away.
Then she saw him, crossing the lobby from the restaurant. He went to the bell captain’s stand, where he was joined by two bellmen, each carrying two suitcases. Jennifer moved quickly and got to the revolving doors ahead of his entourage. O’Connell showed shock for only an instant and went immediately into his usual character role.
“Jennifer, dear, what a pleasant surprise.” The bellmen piled up behind him.
“I wanted to thank you for the car,” she said, showing a bit of the anger she was feeling. She pointed to his luggage. “I didn’t know you’d be so anxious to avoid seeing me.”
“No thanks are required,” he said. “The car was made for you.”
“Still, no one has ever given me a Ferrari. I think gratitude is in order.”
He flashed the stage smile. “I’ve given away several, Jennifer, although there’s no one I can remember more deserving than you.”
“Still, at the price of these things, you can’t have given away many. So I should be grateful for making your short list.”
Padraig waved the bellboys away. He took Jennifer’s arm and steered her to one of the lobby’s plush furniture arrangements, sitting her in one chair while he took the next one. “Don’t be angry with me, darlin’. This was just the kind of ending I was trying to avoid.”
“Is that what it is? An ending?”
“There’s always an ending, and I wanted this one to be happy.”
“A simple goodbye would have been nice.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t have had the courage for something as easy as that.”
“Courage?”
He drew a deep breath, sighed, and reached across the space between the chairs to touch her hand. “Jennifer, if I stay around
you, I’ll do something very foolish that will destroy the rascal’s image I count on for my livelihood.”
“Something like …”
“Like fall in love.”
She felt her jaw drop the slightest bit.
“You see, darlin’, in this crazy business of narcissistic head cases, I’ve never come across anyone quite as fresh and unassuming as you. And there’s this streak of honesty in my bones, probably the curse of an Irish childhood, that says I must have you. But in the picture industry, the swashbuckling rogue is obligated to fly like a bee from flower to flower. He can never be still long enough to lose his heart to anyone. If it was learned that I had fallen in love, the young ladies in my fan club would throw themselves into a mass grave.”
“Will you please shut up,” Jennifer ordered.
He did, showing surprise that he had stopped talking.
“In that whole speech, which I’ll bet comes from one of your movies, you said just one thing that made sense.”
“It didn’t come from a movie. I made it up last night. And then, when I heard how dreadful it sounded, I decided to send the Ferrari instead.”
“You said you love me.”
He stared at her. “Hopelessly,” he admitted. “And you understand why I can’t do that.”
“Take a chance,” Jennifer reminded him.
“I couldn’t promise you how it would come out,” he said.
“You never know how things are going to come out.”
“Most of my relationships have ended in failure.”
“So have mine.”
He pursed his lips, then showed the gentle smile. “Shall we have a fling at it?”
“Let’s. But there’s one thing you should know.”
He looked puzzled.
“I’m not going to give the Ferrari back.”
“Oh dear, then I suppose I’ll have to pay for it.”
“Every penny!”
O’Connell stood and offered his hand. “Can I drive it every once in a while?”
“Maybe on Sundays.”
During the last few days of the festival, they were everywhere together, formally attired at the openings, in T-shirts at the discos, in bathing suits at the beach, where Padraig built her an enormous sand castle. The gossip columnists sensed the story of Padraig O’Connell’s latest conquest and warned that one of society’s poor little rich girls was about to be fleeced. Paparazzi followed them everywhere, producing yards of film of them holding hands, dancing close together, or climbing out of the sports car.
“She’s sleeping with him,” Catherine told Peter after she found Jennifer’s bed unused. “She didn’t come home last night.”
“What an unusual thing for lovers to be doing,” he said.
“Peter, this a new adventure for Jennifer.”
“She’s a consenting adult,” he said. “You make her sound like an adolescent.”
“The guy she’s consenting with is a master. She may be overmatched.”
“She is. But Jennifer is smart enough to know it. She can take care of herself. Besides, the festival is closing down. O’Connell will be looking for new fish in a new pond.”
Neither of them was prepared for Jennifer’s news, delivered from behind a napkin at the closing banquet. She wasn’t coming straight back to New York. There were roads in the west of Ireland that Padraig thought she would love. They were shipping the Ferrari on ahead and planning to spend a week in his native country.
Catherine and Peter returned to New York, where they totaled up their victories. The festival had been a smash success for Pegasus, and Peter was more than generous in giving Catherine full credit. They had gathered over a dozen contracts, each paying up to reserve capacity on the satellite network. There were two others that began to use the service immediately. Pegasus III was generating income, less than a month after the launch.
Jennifer was calling in every day, keeping on top of her obligations. Her only personal comments were that the West Ireland roads were indeed glorious, and that she and Padraig were having a great time.
“You said he’d be fishing in a new pond,” Catherine reminded Peter.
He admitted his mistake. “This seems to be O’Connell’s longest commitment to anyone since he dumped his first wife.”
“But you’re not worried.”
Peter took off his glasses and wiped them carefully. “No, I don’t think so. I guess I’m still delighted that Jennifer is living a little.”
They left the car in a garage at O’Connell’s ancestral home. “How long has the place been in the family?” Jennifer had asked.
“Almost a year now,” he had answered with his impish grin. He had kissed her goodbye at the airport, to the delight of the photographers who had been trying to keep up with them. Then he had flown to Hollywood while Jennifer had boarded the New York flight. She called from Kennedy Airport to invite Catherine and Peter to dinner. “I’ve made reservations at Ciro’s,” she said. “The stuff in my refrigerator is probably growing hair.”
At dinner, Jennifer dropped the bombshell. She and Padraig were going to be married.
Peter’s expression never changed, almost as if it were set in cement. Catherine mumbled a “Dear God” and lowered her face against the back of her hand.
“I knew you’d be overjoyed,” Jennifer teased.
“Married?” Peter managed. Then he added, “Is that really necessary?”
“Only to make an honest woman out of me, for whatever that’s worth.”
“You’ve only known him for … what? One festival and a couple of weeks in Ireland,” Catherine speculated. But almost immediately she got control of herself. “Oh, hell, what am I saying.
I should be thrilled for you. You must be so happy. But are you sure? Absolutely sure?”
Jennifer shrugged. “Who’s ever sure? I know I’m taking a chance. But so far all the chances I’ve taken with Padraig have worked out just fine.”
Peter forced down his dinner in near silence. Catherine moved a fish fillet around her plate with a fork and ignored the vegetables. Only Jennifer ate heartily.
It was a week later when Peter summoned the two sisters to his office, opened a bottle of white burgundy, and passed a small file folder to each of them. “A distasteful subject,” he announced, “but one that has to be considered.” They both looked down at the first page: “Prenuptial Agreement Between Jennifer Ann Pegan and Padraig Aloysius O’Connell.”
“Jesus,” Jennifer said, and slammed the folder shut. Catherine looked sternly at Peter.
“This, or some version of it, is absolutely essential,” he went on. “You’re bringing forty-five percent of this company into your marriage, as well as millions in personal assets. Your money is your business, but it’s my responsibility to protect the company. Depending on where you get married, Padraig O’Connell could have the second largest stake in Pegasus the moment you say ’I do.’ That’s because he could own one half of everything you own.” He was unyielding, staring across the table at Jennifer, who was just as defiantly staring back.
Catherine felt a need to mediate. “I agree, Peter. Some sort of protection is certainly needed. But does it have to be this? Now?”
“It does have to be this. Prenuptials have the full weight of law. And it has to be now. I doubt Mr. O’Connell will be anxious to sign after the wedding.”
Jennifer jumped to her feet. “Is that what you think Padraig is interested in? The company? My money? Open your eyes, Peter. He has his own fortune.”
Peter opened his own folder. “A little more than two hundred thousand dollars. And half again that amount in lines of credit.
But he also has debts. He’s solvent, but he doesn’t have a fortune.”
“Where did you get that?” Jennifer snarled.
“It’s public information. Our bankers gathered it for us.”
“Not for ‘us.’ For you. I’ll have no part in snooping into Padraig’s affairs.”
Catherine put a hand over Jennifer’s, siding with her. “I don’t think that was necessary,” she told Peter.

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