The Doll Brokers (3 page)

She'd played her own part in his younger brother's death, Jonathan thought. He would not let Ann hurt Felicia again. He couldn't explain the bad feeling he had about this doll, but Ann's influence over his mother in her weakened state could not be overlooked. And neither could the possibility that the cancer had impaired Felicia's judgment. Jonathan had a fierce need to protect his mother. No matter what the personal cost, he would put his own life on hold and watch Ann like a hawk. He'd stick to her until he finally understood everything. And when he got to that place, perhaps then this absurd fascination with her that had plagued him for years, would finally disappear.

A
nn dropped the knocker against Felicia's apartment door and it swung inward, giving way to an imperial foyer lined with large oil paintings of country landscapes. Beyond was a spacious parlor, now bustling with visitors.

Patrick Morhardt greeted her. Once, long ago, he had been an attractive man. As blond as his brother was dark, as suave as Jonathan was brooding, over the years his physique hadn't so much softened as it had relaxed. Today, at thirty-nine, gravity tugged gently at his skin. Time—and probably more alcohol than Ann could even begin to imagine—had leeched much of the life from his brown eyes.

“Hail the conquering hero.” He swept a hand out exaggeratedly and ushered her inside, where she joined a crowd of people summoned by Felicia to celebrate the acquisition of the doll.

She dipped one shoulder and let her cashmere shawl slide down her arm. She caught it on the tips of her fingers and offered it to Patrick, an obvious insult. Color crept slowly up his neck, but he took the wrap. Ann crossed to Felicia, seated in a chair in front of a window that afforded a spectacular view of Central Park from thirty-seven floors up.

“You're the real heroine here,” Ann whispered as she leaned in to kiss her cheek.

Felicia smiled, and Ann thought she could hear her facial skin moving with the effort, almost like paper rustling. “I'll let you think so, dear.”

“Where is she?” Ann said, straightening. “I know you. She must be on display around here somewhere.”

“In the dining room.”

Felicia's living room and dining room had once been housed in separate apartments, combined when the wall between them was removed. The décor had a distinctly Far Eastern flavor: proud marble figurines from China on multi-colored pedestals, a Japanese ceramic sculpture at least five feet tall, and a burnt almond cabinet that dated back a few centuries and appeared priceless. The doll stood on a black lacquer table beyond it.

Felicia's guests milled around her. Koji and Chow were still in the States and they had, of course, been invited. Koji demonstrated the doll's features, his small, smooth face alight with child-like pleasure. A few business acquaintances were present as well, some envious, most pretending not to be. It was a tradition of sorts, despite the fierce competition, to share good news with one's peers.

Irene, Patrick's wife, swatted her fourteen-year-old son's hand as he tried to poke the doll in a spot the average little girl would never contemplate.

“Are you more comfortable with the deal now?” Chow asked, easing up beside Ann as she approached.

“Very comfortable.” Ann used the moment to look around for Patrick. And for Jonathan. She liked to pinpoint her vulnerable flanks.

Patrick was hunkered down in front of his mother's chair, his weight braced on his heels, his hands gripped together between his knees. He spoke urgently. Ann kept her gaze on him as she poured herself a Glenlivet at the sidebar in the dining room. Then she headed back in their direction.

A man caught her elbow as she reached the midway point of the large room. Ann flashed an automatic smile. Alvin Pelletier, of Single-Brite Inc. Alvin was a self-made man who had built his company from scratch. Single-Brite was heavily into toddler products, riding the wave of over-stressed moms bent on finding electronic babysitters for their children.

“That doll is beautiful, absolutely exceptional.” Alvin let his hand slide down until his fingers linked with hers. His palm was damp.

“Yes. She is.” Ann took a moment to consider that nearly everyone she talked to referred to the doll as though she were a living, breathing entity. A very good sign.

“How's business otherwise? Your inventory problem?”

“All tidied away.” There are no secrets in this business, Ann thought. “Thanks for asking.” She was impatient to get into the pow-wow between Patrick and Felicia.

“We're doing well,” he confided as if she had asked. “We'd be looking at sixty million this year if not for that asshole at Swansons.”

She knew who he was referring to but didn't want to get distracted by gossip. Patrick was standing now, ending the conversation. “I'd put my money on you any day,” Ann said. Alvin may have looked insipid, but he was a vicious businessman. He had a reputation for never employing salespeople directly, thus avoiding the burden of medical insurance and pension plans. Instead, he used independent representatives who covered a specified territory on a commission basis, and she'd heard from more than one angry source that he habitually failed to pay them what was due.

Less than a month ago he'd been predicting sales of forty-eight million. No doubt some of the commissions he'd stolen back made up a part of the sudden difference.

“This guy—this Dean Carlson, the Division Merchandise Manager over there—he wants three thousand dollars for my short-shipping him a hundred pieces of an item,” he went on.

“Bet you wish you hadn't done it.” Ann tugged her hand free and fought the urge to dry her palm against her thigh.

“It was an oversight! Now it's a fucking nightmare. I've tried to reason with him, but the man won't bend. I might end up cutting him off. There goes five million in orders.”

He wouldn't, Ann thought. Even Hasbro or Mattel wouldn't dare cut off Swansons. Ann took a sidestep, grimacing in feigned commiseration. “Excuse me, Al, I've got to—”

“I'd like to talk to you about this guy. How to handle him, get your take on him.”

“Give my secretary a buzz in the morning. She'll set up lunch.”

“Donna, right?”

“Her name is Dora.” Ann left Pelletier and stepped quickly up to Patrick. “Talking about me?” she asked, blocking his way.

He jerked around. “Only in that you've bitten off more than even you can chew.”

Ah, she thought. He was already anticipating her pratfall with Baby Talk N Glow. She sipped her drink. “Time will tell.”

“I'm meeting with our bank tomorrow, but I'm hardly optimistic. They've been worried about our inventory.”

“You well know that problem's been rectified,” Felicia said, her voice reedy. It got that way when she was upset.

“So what's your contingency plan?” Ann asked Patrick.

“One step at a time.” His brow lowered.

“Not with this doll. I want your back-up plan on my desk before our own bank declines. In fact, let's aim to meet at nine o'clock tomorrow morning.”

“Who the hell do you think you're—”

“I'm the president of Hart Toy,” Ann interrupted him. She hated to pull rank but had learned a while ago that this was the only way with Patrick. “And you're my vice president of finance. I believe I've just requested the pleasure of your company tomorrow morning?”

“This is the part where you salute, Pat.” Jonathan's voice came from just behind her left shoulder.

“I've already signed the deal, Patrick,” she said, trying to be more conciliate. “We're not going to go back on our word, not with the Chinese.”

“Patrick, please line up interviews with other banks,” said Felicia.

Both of them knew that it should have been done already, but Ann held her tongue.

She pivoted to look at Jonathan. “Well, well, the gang's all here. Still keeping an eye on things?”

“I wouldn't miss Francesca's cooking.” He plucked a shrimp-and-crab ceviche from his cocktail plate and held it up as though to admire it.

He was keeping his concern over this project from his mother then, Ann thought as he dropped the ceviche onto his tongue.

She turned away. “Where were we?”

“Patrick was just telling me that our advertising director still has the flu,” Felicia said.

As glitches went, it was minor. “Then we'll make arrangements to go ahead with the commercial shoot without him,” Ann said. “I should be able to clear my schedule and get to Toronto by Wednesday.”

“That sort of thing needs weeks of preparation,” Patrick argued.

“In Los Angeles, sure. But I'm going with the Canadians on this one. I thought I mentioned that. Yes, I'm sure I did. In a memo. Do you read my memos, Pat? Canada is generally more flexible and I want to get this ball rolling as soon as possible.”

“Full steam ahead,” Jonathan said conversationally.

Ann fought the urge to look his way again. She still wasn't sure what he expected to accomplish with his agenda regarding the doll. As she turned away from the family enclave, she felt Jonathan's gaze on the back of her neck. She returned to the dining room and
was plunking fresh ice cubes into her glass when a hand roughly the size and texture of a bear's paw closed over hers and took the tongs from her.

“Felicia ought to have a bartender here,” Sidney Greenspan announced.

Ann felt the muscles in her lower back uncoil and relax. She and Sidney understood each other, despite the fact that they came from completely different backgrounds, his being one of wealth and privilege.

“For twenty guests?” she asked. “Would you waste your precious money?”

Greenspan laughed, a jolting, thunderclap baritone.

“How are you, by the way?”

“Feeling a little upstaged by Baby What's-Her-Name over there.” He poured his own drink, ninety percent bourbon. Ann wondered if his ruddy complexion tonight was the result of the liquor or if his blood pressure was up again. Greenspan was a chunky Goliath in his early sixties whose ginger hair was still holding onto its color long after nature had intended. Much of what he had accomplished with his SG Dolls, Inc. had been due more to his inherited wealth than to any talent he might possess. At least, that was the word on the street, and Ann tended to believe it.

She turned her back to the sideboard now and leaned against it to gaze at the doll. “We're going to kick ass with her, Sidney.”

“Oh, yeah? Those your knees I hear knocking?”

She sipped and shook her head. “Yours. You're quaking with fear that Hart Toy is going to upstage you.”

Greenspan tossed back half his drink. “I'd have grabbed her if I'd had the chance.”

“That's precisely why this was kept so quiet.”

He glowered at her. “You're too young to be so cagey.”

“I was born old.” Ann pushed off the sideboard.

“Yeah, well, Baby Pees-Her-Pants is going to take another bite out of your life span.”

“That's one talent she hasn't been endowed with.”

“Biting or peeing?”

“Make that two.”

She didn't get the laugh she anticipated. Greenspan stared at the doll as though she had come to life. “You're taking a big chance with this thing, Ann. You're gambling too much of your resources.”

And then some, she thought. “I know.”

“Then what the hell are you doing it for?”

“Because I can?”

Greenspan's expression cleared and he laughed.

“What's so funny?” His wife—a woman he privately referred to as Number Four—slid up to his side and tucked her hand in his arm.

His response was rough and abrupt, cutting off any further discussion. “Talking business.”

Charlie Greenspan lifted one shoulder in a shrug. She was a magnificent redhead born and bred in the South, maybe thirty years Sidney's junior. She couldn't have cared less about her husband's brusque behavior. She wore a diamond on her left hand big enough to cant her weight slightly in that direction, and a navy Givenchy suit that showed off one of her best assets. Ann thought that Wife Number Four had done well enough for herself, and she knew it. Every woman had her priorities, after all.

Ann placed her empty glass back on the sideboard. “I'll leave you lovebirds to it.”

Greenspan snorted, while Charlie gave a smoky giggle.

Ann decided she was tired of pretending she wasn't scared to death about Baby Talk N Glow. She was ready to head home.

I
rene Morhardt's priorities were simple. She lived in a decent house in Forest Hills, had a few close girlfriends and two teenage children. She intended to protect these priorities from the preening, self-entitled coward she had married.

“Shut up!” she shouted at Samantha and Timothy in the back seat as they crossed the bridge from the city, heading home after Felicia's party. Her shrill tone worked and it had an added benefit: Patrick winced as it cut through his skull.

“Is that necessary?” His knuckles went white where his hands gripped the steering wheel.

Irene ignored the question. “She's gong to bury you this time, you know.”

Patrick released his death grip and slammed his palm against the dash. “What the hell would you have me do? Mom wants this doll.
She's
the driving force behind it.”

“Oh, for Christ's sake, Patrick, give it up with a little dignity, would you? Ann's been playing your mother like a fiddle. Stop whining about it and
do
something! Because I'm here to tell you, if Ann does pull this off, you're done. You'll be just one more pencil-pushing rat in her maze.”

“I can't take over the project,” he said. “Ann's got it under lock-and-key.”

“Then
stop
the project!”