Make Me Forget (2 page)

Not that it mattered, she discounted, inhaling the pristine air to cleanse herself of thoughts of the man and the strangely charged moment. She settled into a comfortable jog. She had way more important things to consider than men and sex. Like her new life here, for instance. Her new job. A whole new future.

And it’s not like he’d seemed remotely interested, anyway.

It was time for her to face up to the fact that she was alone in the world. Maybe she should consider getting a dog . . .

She imagined her parents’ incredulous expressions if she ever told them she had a dog. She resisted an urge to laugh, but then almost immediately, that familiar hole opened up in her chest.

It’d never happen again, that she’d tell them about some new, exciting addition to her life.

As a teenager, Harper had suffered from debilitating anxiety. Her father had been a psychiatrist. Philip McFadden had spent a great deal of time and effort years ago to cure his daughter of several phobias and associated panic attacks. One of her phobias had been for dogs. Her mom and dad might have been stunned if they’d known she was considering a dog as a pet, but they would have been proud, too.

She’d come a long way from being that anxious, sad little girl. She’d never really thanked her parents for that.

* * *

Sheldon Sangar, the
Gazette
’s editor in chief, waved Harper in from across the newsroom. Or at least he beckoned her as best he could while clutching several bottles of water and a carton holding what looked like two strawberry smoothies from Lettie’s Place, the local coffeehouse a couple of blocks away. In Harper’s previous jobs, the typical fuel of the newsroom was adrenaline, caffeine, and junk food. At the
Sierra Tahoe Gazette
, the employees preferred salads, bottled water, and jogs on their lunch hour. Sheldon Sangar was no exception to this easygoing, health-conscious company attitude. It was strange to have an editor in chief who could have passed as a hippie if it weren’t for his neat, short gray hair and newsroom badge.

“Do you have something for me?” Harper asked Sangar eagerly as she approached.

“Do you want a smoothie? I got one for Denise, but she had to take off early to take her daughter to the doctor for an infected spider bite,” Sangar said, holding out the carton.

Harper briefly tried to picture her former bulldog-like editor-in-chief, Roberta, leave early because of a sick child. She failed in her imaginings. Roberta was lucky to get out of the newsroom every day by eight p.m. Harper doubted Frazier would let her go home early if her baby came down with typhoid.

“No, I mean . . . do you have a story for me? Things are pretty slow. I’ve already finished my edits and layouts.”
By ten o’clock this morning.

Sangar gave her a knowing glance over the frame of his glasses. “Sorry, no page-burners at the moment. I told you things could be pretty slow at the end of August. A lot of vacationers have cleared out now that school is starting, crime is at a standstill, and we haven’t even got much to say about the Tahoe Shores football team yet. You
did
tell me you wanted an easy pace.”

“I know. I’m not complaining,” Harper assured.

And she wasn’t, really. It was just hard to adjust her brain and body to the snail-like pace of a small town. It’d take some practice.

Sangar blinked as if he’d just thought of something and glanced down at the bottles of waters he clutched. “I
do
have something for you. Almost forgot. Denise told me to give it to you when I walked in. Came special delivery.” He extended his thumb and forefinger, and Harper realized for the first time he held a white linen envelope. She took it, curious. Her name and the office address for the
Gazette
were written in elegant cursive on the front.

“Looks fancy. Like a wedding invitation or something,” Sangar said, readjusting the bottles of water against his body. He turned and loped in the direction of his office.

“Yeah, except I don’t know anybody around here who would ask me to . . .”

She trailed off when she realized Sangar was out of earshot. She started toward her office, tearing open the envelope. The stationery was a plain white linen card with the exception of some bold dark blue and gold lettering at the top:
Jacob R. Latimer, 935-939 Lakeview Boulevard, Tahoe Shores, NV, 89717.

“Jacob Latimer?” she mumbled, her feet slowing. The name sounded familiar, but she couldn’t pin down why exactly.

“What about Latimer?” a woman asked sharply.

Harper glanced up and saw that Ruth Dannen, their features, society, and entertainment editor, had halted in front of her. She was in her midfifties and had been pleasant enough to Harper since starting her new job, if a little gruff. Ruth was a polished, thin woman who gave off an air of hard-nosed sophistication and always being in the know about Tahoe people and events.

“It’s an invitation,” Harper said, puzzled. She reread the handwritten message inside out loud. “‘Mr. Jacob Latimer requests the honor of your presence at a cocktail party tonight at his home. Please bring your invitation and present it to the security guard at the entry gate at 935 Lakeview Boulevard. Our apologies for the inconvenience in advance, but for security reasons, identification will be required and there will be a brief search of your car and person
.
No additional guests, please.’”

The note was signed by an Elizabeth Shields.

She glanced up when Ruth gave a low whistle.

“Well, how do you rate?” Ruth wondered, giving Harper a sharp, incredulous once-over.

“What do you mean? Who’s Latimer?”

“Only the richest of all the rich bastards who congregate around this lake. You’ve never heard of Latimer? The software mogul? Came out of nowhere when he was still practically a kid, making his first millions in the Clint Jefferies insider trading pharmaceutical scandal? No one could ever pin anything on him, of course. Jefferies was actually the focus of the Securities and Exchange Commission’s investigation, which was eventually dropped for lack of evidence. They always go after the one with the money, not the small potatoes, like Latimer was at the time. If there
was
insider trading going on, both Latimer and Jefferies got away with it. By the time the scandal faded, Latimer was serving in army intelligence. He’s a brilliant programmer. The military snapped him up in a New York minute from MIT to create anti-hacker software. I hear they gave him huge bonuses every time he managed to get into the government’s high-security files, and then gave him even more money to utilize the knowledge for creating programs that kept criminals from doing the exact same thing he’d just done. He parlayed all he learned from serving in army intelligence—and all the money he made in the Jefferies pharmaceutical windfall—into—”

“Lattice,” Harper finished, realization hitting her. Lattice was a well-known software giant. Of course. That’s why she’d heard the name Jacob Latimer. Harper didn’t know much about big business or technology movers and shakers, but she’d heard of Lattice. Even though Latimer’s company had begun based on an antivirus security program for the military, it’d quickly moved on to public sector applications for human resources, and most recently to antivirus software for personal computers and devices.

“What does the owner of Lattice want with me?” Harper wondered.

Ruth just arched her plucked, dark blond eyebrows and dropped her gaze over Harper speculatively. “Maybe hair the color of copper and a girlish figure has more mileage than I’d thought these days. Latimer loves women. Rumor is, he has some unusual tastes in that arena.”

Harper opened her mouth to tell the older woman that was ridiculous. And Harper’s looks weren’t
unusual
, thank you very much. She’d been referred to as the girl next door more than once in her life, much to her irritation.

“I don’t see how he’d know anything about my existence, let alone my hair color. Seriously, what do you think this is about?”

Ruth held out her hand. Harper gave her the invitation. Ruth examined the contents, frowning slightly.

“It’s genuine. I recognize Elizabeth’s handwriting. She’s his primary personal assistant. I think he has several, but she’s his main one for the Tahoe compound. You have
no
idea why you’re getting this? You don’t know Latimer or any of his staff? His acquaintances? Never met him while you were in San Francisco?”

“No. I didn’t even recognize his name at first.”

“Well,” Ruth said, giving the card back with a flick of her thin wrist, “that’s an invite that almost everyone in the country would kill for, including me. Latimer keeps to himself in that lakeside compound of his. He’s paranoid. Some people say it’s because he’s got plenty to hide. Lots of rumors have flown around about him over the years. Is he still involved with the U.S. military? Does he pull strings to move players on the chessboard of international relations? Is he a spy? He’s definitely a big philanthropist—probably to gloss over the gaping holes in his respectability as far as his rise to power. Who knows, really? That’s the question when it comes to Latimer, and I suspect the answer is: only Latimer himself. And possibly Clint Jefferies.”

“Who’s Clint Jefferies?”

“The pharmaceutical and real estate tycoon? Owns Markham Pharmaceuticals? Worth billions. Nice looking, but a bit of a douche if you ask me,” Ruth replied with a sniff.

Harper definitely recognized the company name Markham. It was one of the top six pharmaceutical companies worldwide. “Right,” Harper mused. “So how are Jefferies and Latimer related again?”

“Nowadays, they
aren’t
, because that’s the way Latimer wants it. Jefferies was his mentor a long time ago. But Latimer has held him at arm’s length ever since the Markham insider trading scandal. That whole affair has been shrouded in mystery for years, just like Latimer himself. He’s a reporter’s dream and nightmare at once.
Someone
has done a good job of brushing the trail of his history clean,” Ruth said with a pointed glance. “My bet is that the main trail sweeper is Latimer himself, with a little help from his buddies in military intelligence. I’ve been invited to a few charity events Latimer has sponsored at a local hotel. He only attends once in a while, and when he does, he’s like a ghost. No one ever gets a good look at him, let alone talk to him. Rumor has it, he even has his women imported from other parts of the world. His deliberate avoidance of the women around here only adds to his mystique and allure.
And
to local females’ frustration. You
have
to tell me every detail about the cocktail party.”

“You mean you think I should go?”

Ruth looked scandalized. “Aren’t you listening to what I’m saying? That’s a golden ticket you’re holding right there. His staff guards him like Fort Knox, both here and in San Francisco. Even if Latimer does his ghost act at this cocktail party, though, just getting behind those gates is a major coup. I’ve never been invited to the compound.”

“But—”

“You
will
go,” Ruth said with a glare. Harper gave her a dry
don’t even think you can push me around
look. Ruth seemed to realize her harshness and laughed. “Jesus, how to explain to a peasant that you don’t turn down an invitation from the king?” Harper opened her mouth to defend herself. “Oh, calm down,” Ruth said, cutting her off with a wave of her hand and the air of someone who had more important things to consider than soothing a frayed ego. She took Harper by the arm and urged her toward her office. “I’m not being difficult, Harper. Honestly. It’s just you don’t
get
Tahoe Shores yet. Sure, we’re a little Podunk town, but at the same time, we host some of the biggest movers and shakers in the world on that lakeshore. The Silicon Valley elite flock to the Nevada Tahoe shores for the tax breaks and the incredible views, and Jacob Latimer is one of the biggest of them all.” Ruth stepped back in front of Harper’s desk, letting go of her arm. “Now. Are you a newswoman, or not?”

Harper stilled at the challenge, eyes narrowing. “Of course.”

“Then you’re going to that damn party because this is the best bit of news this pitiful newspaper has had in ages. Who knows, maybe you’ll get some dirt on Latimer in that close of proximity.”

“I’m an editor now, not a reporter. Let alone an undercover one.”

“I don’t care if you’re Ben freaking Bradlee, you’re
going
.” Ruth pointed at Harper’s chair. “Now sit down, and I’ll try to prepare you for what you’re about to get into. As best I can, anyway, since I only have my imagination to go on as far as what happens behind those gates.”

Harper gave a bark of disbelieving laughter, but started around her desk, nevertheless. Some people might have been offended by Ruth’s manner, but plainspoken bossiness was familiar to her. Ruth was the closest thing to a savvy newspaperwoman Harper had run into at the
Gazette
. The truth was, she wouldn’t let Ruth boss her around if she wasn’t curious herself about the invitation.

“You make a cocktail party sound like it’s life altering,” Harper said, plopping into her chair.

“You never know,” Ruth replied drolly. “We’re talking Jacob Latimer here. He’s made it a business to alter lives. Maybe his own, most of all. He made a giant of himself out of nothing but shadows and whispers, after all.
That’s
the potential story, if you ask me.”

What the hell are you doing here?

She’d asked herself that question too many times to count before she pulled her Toyota Camry up next to a security station at 935 Lakeview Boulevard that evening. It’d been less than a half mile from her condo. Harper felt a little stupid driving the short distance on such a gorgeous evening. She’d rather walk. From the sound of the invitation, however, she got the definite impression she wasn’t expected to stroll casually up to Jacob Latimer’s gated compound.

The guard seemed amiable enough as he approached, but something about his muscular, fit body and sharp eyes as he examined her face, the invitation, and then her face again suggested he was something more than just easygoing part-time help stuck out at the front gate. The word
ex-military
popped into her brain. Well, Ruth had said that Latimer had done a stint in army intelligence. Maybe he’d hired some buddies from his army days to do his security.

“You’re all set, Ms. McFadden,” the guard finally said, handing back her invitation and identification. “Just keep heading straight down the road and you’ll dead-end at the big house.”

“You’re not going to search me or my car?” she asked, referring to the mention in the invitation about security measures.

“No, ma’am,” he replied, deadpan. “You’ve been pre-cleared for entry.”

This just keeps getting weirder and weirder. What did Ruth get me into?

It wasn’t Ruth’s fault, though. Not really. Harper’s reporter instinct had been nudged by the unexpected invitation and Ruth’s gossip about Latimer. She had no interest in doing a big-business exposé. But she
was
known for having a nose for a good story. Harper usually gravitated toward human interest pieces, though . . . to big stories seen through the eyes of seemingly small, everyday people. She couldn’t imagine what a good human interest story might be in regard to Jacob Latimer. By all reports, the man more resembled a machine or ghost than a flesh-and-blood man.

At least it won’t be boring
, Harper thought wryly as she progressed down a stunning drive canopied by soaring pine trees, landscaped grounds, and several outbuildings. Suddenly the sprawling main house came into view. The mansion blended both features of the old Tahoe style with a clean, minimalist, almost Japanese aesthetic: Western log lodge meets Frank Lloyd Wright. The result was stunning.

A woman in her thirties wearing a black cocktail dress briskly stepped down the stairs when Harper pulled up at the porte cochere. A young man followed and came around to open Harper’s door.

“Just leave your keys,” the woman said. “Jim will park your car for you. Welcome! I’m Elizabeth Shields,” the woman said when Harper alighted. She peered at Harper through a pair of tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses. Harper sensed she was pleasant, but guarded . . . and
curious
, as well.

“Harper McFadden. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Harper said, extending her hand.

Elizabeth was an attractive brunette in her midthirties. Something about the way she wore the expensive-looking, but simply cut cocktail dress called to mind a uniform instead of party attire. As Jacob Latimer’s assistant, Elizabeth must have to dress up for work a lot.

“Follow me,” Elizabeth said, nodding her head in the direction of the stairs. “I’m sorry about all the security measures. The software industry is ridiculously competitive these days; it’s a necessary precaution, I’m afraid,” Elizabeth explained as she led Harper through a pair of enormous carved pine doors with wrought iron handles. Harper didn’t have time to tell Elizabeth the security check had been surprisingly brief. She was too busy goggling as they entered a high-domed entry hall and then a great room featuring lodgepole-pine-beamed thirty-foot ceilings, two soaring river rock fireplaces, and a long stretch of floor-to-ceiling windows revealing a jaw-dropping panoramic view of Lake Tahoe and the surrounding mountains. Despite the open, old Tahoe design of the structure, the furniture and finishes were contemporary, utilitarian, and elegant. It was the most stunning room Harper had ever seen, whether in photos or real life.

Elizabeth turned as they walked, and saw her gawking. “It’s pretty, isn’t it?” she asked, smiling.

“That’s a bit of an understatement.”

Elizabeth laughed and opened a glass-paned door for her. “I find myself thinking that a lot. Mr. Latimer has a way of making regular speech seem inadequate.”

“I can imagine,” Harper muttered, following Elizabeth out the door and onto an enormous terrace.

The scene was breathtaking, something straight out of a movie set. The section of the terrace closest to the house was under a protective roof, so that one could use it even in inclement weather. Given the two outdoor stone fireplaces on the upper deck, a person could sit out there comfortably, enjoying the scenery even as the surrounding mountains became white with snow. Even in late August, the nights could turn pleasantly chilly in the alpine setting. Cozy flames flickered in the fireplaces, beckoning a person to curl up on one of the many couches or chairs near them.

Elizabeth led her down some stairs, and they arrived at the second terrace level. This and the next deck down were places to bask in the sun. Again, there were multiple seating areas, landscaped flora, trickling fountains, and stone paths. Harper’s eyes caught on one of several circular-shaped, deep wicker divans with a sunscreen attached to the top of it. The circular screen on one had been lowered to block what was happening in the deep couch. Six bare feet stuck out of the bottom of the obscured divan. Harper heard muffled male and female laughter.

Steam rose from a large sauna to the far right. Down on the next level of the terrace was a pool. From there, another set of wide stairs led down to the beach. Towering Jeffrey and ponderosa pines framed the view. Two long docks stretched out onto the sapphire blue lake, three Jet Skis tied up to one of them. In the distance, a yacht was moored alongside one of the beautiful, handcrafted wooden motorboats that were favored in Tahoe.

Elizabeth led her toward a square-shaped stone pedestal that contained a fire pit. Twenty or so people had gathered around the open fire. They stood or lounged in cushioned sofas and chairs. Most of them wore sunglasses to protect their eyes from the brilliant setting sun. A waiter was moving among them, serving hors d’oeuvres and drinks. In the distance, a jazz quartet was playing a lazy, sensual tune. Several of the well-heeled partygoers glanced over at Harper and Elizabeth as they approached.

A quick surveillance told her that more than half of the people were women. Not just any women, either. Stunning ones. Exotic ones. Were these some of Latimer’s
imports
, as Ruth had mentioned? Some of the women’s stares on her were rapier sharp and speculative . . . like they were eyeing the competition? Annoyance flickered through her at the idea of being considered a candidate for Latimer’s harem. Maybe now that she’d seen the haloed interior of Latimer’s compound, she had enough information to satisfy Ruth’s curiosity and could sneak out of here ASAP. She didn’t relish spending the evening in a den of clawing cats.

Elizabeth turned to her and murmured quietly as their pace slowed. “I’ll introduce you to him right away. He’s very anxious to meet you.”

Harper’s bewilderment soared. An urge to laugh struck her. That was the final straw.
Clearly
there had been some kind of mistake. They thought she was someone else. She’d been granted entry into this forbidden paradise because of a colossal error.

Latimer’s assistant stopped next to a man with short, spiky, bleached white hair. He wore a fitted, trendy European-cut dark blue suit, a pink plaid tie, and a pair of old-fashioned Ray-Ban sunglasses. He immediately gave off an air of being dapper, quirky, and sharp as a whip all at once. So
this
was Latimer? He hardly seemed mysterious. She couldn’t imagine this man’s flamboyance being called ghostlike. He was about as obvious as a slap to the face. He peered over the top of his glasses at Harper pointedly.

“Is this her?” he demanded of Elizabeth in a clipped British accent. Without waiting for Elizabeth to reply, he addressed Harper. “Are you Harper McFadden?”

“Uh . . . yes.”

His gaze dropped over her in an assessing fashion. “Well aren’t you gorgeous. I
love
that dress,” he declared, reaching to take her hand.

Elizabeth laughed. “Harper McFadden, meet Cyril Atwater. He’s been looking forward to meeting you.”

“Really?” Harper strained to remain polite, but realized she sounded incredulous, anyway.

“Of course. This film is going to be spectacular. I think it’ll be a shoo-in to win at Sundance, and it might even be a dark horse for some commercial success Stateside.”

“What film is that?” Harper wondered.

“The one based on your story, of course,” Cyril said, looking vaguely put out by her ignorance. “Didn’t you tell her?” he asked Elizabeth sharply.

“I don’t know anything about it. I just follow orders,” Elizabeth said. Again, Harper caught Elizabeth’s curiosity as she regarded her.

“Excuse me, I don’t mean to seem rude,” Harper said at last. “But I don’t know what you’re talking about. And I have no idea why I’ve been invited here tonight.”

“I’m Cyril Atwater,” the man repeated. “The
director
?” he added with a trace of annoyance when Harper gave him an apologetic look for her ignorance. She suspected he rolled his eyes behind his Ray-Bans. “I realize you Yanks have been spoon-fed tedious car chases and shoot-’em-ups since the cradle, but surely a woman of your obvious intelligence and compassion occasionally watches a documentary or film of actual
substance
.”

Despite his acerbic tongue, a smile twitched at Harper’s mouth when he’d seamlessly switched from his clipped English accent to say
shoot-’em-ups
with a perfect cowboy drawl.

“Can I get you something to drink, miss?” a waiter asked her over her right shoulder.

“Yes, I’ll have a glass of chardonnay, thank you,” Harper said. She turned back to Cyril. “I’m sorry, I don’t watch many movies, either of the documentary or shoot-’em-up variety.”

“But you must realize that the story you did on Ellie, that homeless teenager in San Francisco, would make a brilliant film.”

“And this is why I’ve been asked here tonight?” Harper asked dazedly. Well,
this
certainly was an odd turn of events.

“It must be,” Elizabeth said. “I asked you because Mr. Latimer requested it, but I wasn’t sure about the details.” Elizabeth glanced over at a still-bristling Cyril. “Mr. Atwater has won several major film awards, including the Academy Award last year for his documentary
Bitter Secrets.”

“I’m not a child, Elizabeth. You don’t have to soothe any feathers,” Atwater said peevishly. Elizabeth’s upraised brows and amused glance at Harper seemed to say she felt differently. “So what do you think, Harper? Is it all right if I call you Harper?” Cyril asked.

“Of course.”

“Well? What do you think of letting me do the film?”

Harper shrugged dubiously. “I don’t think that’d work, to be honest.”

“Why not?” Cyril demanded.

“Because it’s not just me you’d have to get agreement from, but Ellie.”

“That’s done easily enough.”

“But she doesn’t live on the streets anymore,” Harper explained. “She’s a waitress and attends junior college part-time.”

“Thanks to your story, I’m sure that’s all true. I’m not planning on doing an actual documentary for this. It’d be done with actors and actresses, but based on the feature you did.”

Harper glanced over at Elizabeth and gave a short laugh. “This
isn’t
what I expected in coming here tonight.”

“What
did
you expect?” Elizabeth asked.

“I didn’t know what to expect. I was surprised when I got the invitation. I was under the impression Mr. Latimer was responsible for it, which confused me even more. I see now that it was you”—she glanced at Cyril—“who was behind it all.”

“Oh, Jacob
was
responsible for it. He suggested the whole thing to me at lunch a few days ago. I thought his idea was brilliant. But of course, everything Jacob suggests
is
,” Cyril said as though stating the obvious.

The waiter arrived with an empty wine goblet and a bottle on a tray.

“Is he here?” Harper asked, smiling in thanks as she took the glass. She noticed the label as the waiter poured the chardonnay: It was Latimer’s own.

“Mr. Latimer, you mean?”

Harper nodded at Elizabeth and took a sip. She blinked in pleasure at the subtle, oaky taste of the wine.
Nothing but the best for Latimer.

“No, he got caught up in an emergency work situation, unfortunately,” Elizabeth said smoothly. Harper had the impression this was Elizabeth’s standard reply for queries in regard to Latimer’s presence . . . or absence, as the case likely usually was.

“Jacob hardly ever attends these things. I tell him this place is his cave”—Cyril waved his crystal highball glass at the magnificent mansion—“and he’s the hermit who inhabits it. If I didn’t come over and push my way in a few times a week, I’d never catch sight of him. He’d be just as much a legend to me as Sasquatch and our local Tahoe Tessie. I live just a house down,” he explained to Harper, pointing behind her. “I suppose if I harp too much, the hermit will toss me out on my bony butt, so I try to—” Cyril paused, his brow furrowing.

Harper instinctively turned to where he was staring. Other partygoers looked around in the direction of the house, as well. Conversation faded off until a breathless hush prevailed.

It was like a charge had ignited the evening air and an electrical current passed through them all. Or at least that’s how it felt to Harper as she watched the man from the beach saunter toward the party with easy grace, eyes trained directly on her.

* * *

“To what do we owe this honor?” Cyril boomed incredulously as the man approached their small grouping. As if on cue, the other partygoers turned back to their conversation, and the quartet began another number. Even though everyone resumed the cocktail party routine, Harper noticed several sideways, surreptitious glances in their direction. It wasn’t just women looking, either. It was clear that Latimer’s presence at the party was not only unexpected, but also exciting.