Where the Heart Chooses (27 page)

“Wasn’t he partnered once?”

“Early in his career, Gregor. His partner
was tortured and killed…” Like his father, Quinton knew better than
to try shielding me from the reality of life as an intelligence
operative. “…and Vincent went after the men who were responsible.
From what filtered back, he put the fear of God into what was left
of them. Most organizations and their operatives won’t tangle with
a WBIS agent.”

“As hesitant as I am to admit it, we may
have need of an organization like the WBIS.” I recalled Nigel’s
words about that agency.

Quinton smiled tightly. “Unfortunately,
you’re correct, Mother. There are too many countries where life is
held cheaply.”

“And the WBIS can deal with them, because it
holds life just as cheaply,” Gregor growled. “I don’t like how he
disabled the surveillance equipment.”

“Neither do I. I’ll have Callahan come take
a look at your security and see about beefing it up. He owes me a
few favors.”

“Thank you, sweetheart.”

“If Mark Vincent shows his puss around here
again,
I’ll
be ready for him!” Gregor was taking this
personally. He fisted his hands on his hips, the action moving
aside his suit jacket.

Which in turn revealed the .45 under his
arm.

Quinton’s lips twitched, whether to restrain
a grin or a grimace, I was uncertain. “Gregor, I think you’ll need
a bigger gun.”

* * * *

Allison had called to ask if I’d join her
for lunch at the Café Montpelier on the lobby floor of the Madison
Arms. I really hoped she wasn’t going to tell me she was about to
divorce her present husband.

I checked my lynx coat, and the hostess led
me to Allison’s table. She rose and we kissed each other’s
cheeks.

“I really appreciate you meeting me. I had
to get out of the house.” She glanced through the menu, then set it
aside. “Did you want a cocktail?”

“No.” I smiled at our waitress. “I’ll have
grapefruit juice over crushed ice, please.”

“Well, I’ll have a rumpletini.”

“Yes, Mrs.—uh—Dashwood.” The waitress went
to put in our drinks order.

Allison sighed. “I have to stop getting
married.” A slow flush covered her cheeks. “I must be out of my
mind, Portia! Chance is two years older than Ian!” Who was her
youngest.

I wasn’t about to comment on that.
“‘Rumpletini,’ Allison?”

“It’s an apple martini made with rum instead
of vodka. Chance’s sister suggested I try it.”

“Chance has a sister?”

“Yes, unfortunately. She moved to D.C. about
a month ago, and she’s staying with us until she gets a job and
finds a place of her own.”

“I see. You don’t sound overjoyed about
it.”

“I’m not.” She didn’t elucidate, and I
didn’t pressure her to.

“It’s your home. Tell her to leave.”

“I’m afraid if I force Chance to choose, it
won’t be me.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Excuse me?” She stared at me. “What do you
mean, ‘what can you do?’”

“I could find her something through one of
my charities, if you like.” I wasn’t about to tell her I could do a
background check on them—Allison didn’t know what I’d done during
the late ’50s and early ’60s. In addition to that, I was a firm
believer in leaving well enough alone. She was a grown woman, and
the last thing she needed was an interfering friend. “They’re
always in need of office help. What kind of training does she
have?”

“Do you know, I have no idea? But I’ll bring
it up with Chance. Darling, you’re a lifesaver!”

“That’s what friends are for.” I smoothed my
napkin on my lap. “I’m glad you called me, Allison.”

“Portia? Is something wrong?”

I met her gaze. “Quinton’s no longer seeing
Susan Burkhart.”

“The young woman from Justice? Thank
God!”

“Excuse me?”

“She’s a…she wouldn’t be good for him.”

“No, she wouldn’t.” From the information I’d
gathered, she was more interested in marrying into the Sebring
clan, and the fact that she no longer was—never had been—on the
inside track, was bringing out her spiteful side. “I’m curious as
to how you came to that conclusion.”

“Somehow she learned I’m Quinton’s
godmother. She came to see me and complained about his treatment of
her. I told her if he treated her that poorly, she should be
thankful they were no longer a couple. She wasn’t pleased, and
seemed to feel I wasn’t taking the situation seriously enough. I
told her not to let the door hit her on the ass on her way
out.”

“Thank you.” I bit back a laugh. Allison was
a lady until she didn’t want to be. “I appreciate your support. I
ran across a number of acquaintances who had the temerity to
question his behavior.”

“Did they really? And of course you cut them
to ribbons with your icy words.”

I gave her a cool smile. “I’m the ice queen,
aren’t I?”

She laughed and shook her head, but then
sobered. “Portia, Quinton is thirty-seven. How do you feel about
the fact that he won’t be giving you grandchildren any time
soon?”

“To have Nigel’s grandson or granddaughter…I
can’t begin to express what that would mean to me. But this is
Quinton’s decision, and I wouldn’t dream of pressuring him to
become a father if he has no desire for that.”

“How did Nigel react when you told him you
were pregnant?”

“We had a quarrel over whether the new stove
I wanted should be stainless steel or avocado.”

“
Avocado
, Portia?” Allison
shuddered.

“You have to remember this was 1964.”

“Still…” She shook her head and sighed. “I’m
sorry Quinton is alone again, although I suppose it isn’t
surprising.”

“Given who his parents are?”

“Don’t be silly. Remember, I knew you when
you were a girl. And I saw the way Nigel would look at you.”

“Oh dear. Father wouldn’t have been
pleased.”

“He was a grumpy old man.” Having stayed at
Shadow Brook a few times when he was there, she would know his
temperament. “Let’s talk of something else.” She reached for her
handbag and withdrew a small gift. “For Quinton’s birthday.”

“Thank you! We’re having a dinner for him
tonight, and I’ll give it to him then. Would you care to join
us?”

“It’s kind of you to invite me—”

I took a flower from the small vase at the
center of the table and threw it at her. “Don’t be an idiot!”

She smiled. “Seriously, thank you. However,
Chance and I are meeting a financial planner. He wants to start a
catering business.”

“Is he good?”

“Yes.”

“In that case, I’ll be more than happy to
send some business his way.”

“You’re a real friend, Portia. And I know,
that’s what friends are for
.”

“Well, they are.”

Our waitress brought our drinks and took our
order, then left to put it in.

Allison took a sip of her cocktail and
grimaced. “I don’t know why I listened to Francesca.”

“Who?”

“Chance’s sister.”

“Order something else.”

“No, this will be my punishment. You know, I
don’t usually react to someone in this manner.”

“No, but aren’t we all entitled to times
like that?”

“I suppose.” Our meal was brought out, and
she unfolded her napkin, placed it on her lap, and took a bite of
her salad. “I…I have something else to tell you. It’s why I wanted
to have lunch with you today.”

“I’m all ears.”

“The thing is…” She worried her lower lip.
“…I don’t know if I should say anything now.”

“Allison, don’t be coy. Tell me!”

“Ian and Grace are expecting. There, I’ve
said it!”

I jumped up, rushed around the table, and
hugged her. “I’m so happy for you! And for them!” Her youngest son
and his wife had been trying for a baby since their honeymoon six
years before. “Now, tell me all about it!”

* * * *

The subject of Mark Vincent wasn’t brought
up again until the end of February.

It was a cold winter, too cold to take the
horses on the trail, so we exercised them in the country club’s
indoor ring, taking them over various jumps that the staff set up
for us and working them in dressage movements.

I could tell there was something on my son’s
mind, but I waited for him to broach the subject himself.

I wondered if it might be about another
young woman. It was almost two months since he’d stopped seeing
Susan Burkhart.

“He’s got a dossier on me, Mother!” Quinton
brought Testament around, and I reined Victory to a standstill.

“Excuse me?”

“Vincent!” He looked disgruntled. “It’s even
more in depth than my file at the—” He changed what he’d been about
to say. “At State.”

“And he had more to add to it, because of
me. Sweetheart, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be, Mother. I found out some things
regarding him, and took him to dinner for his birthday.”

“But his birthday is in July.” I shook my
head. “That isn’t important. Why does he have a file on you? It’s
hardly likely that your department will come into contact with the
WBIS.”

For some reason he blushed, and I stared at
him thoughtfully, remembering how personable I’d found “Harriman
Patterson.” Did Quinton find him as personable?

“I don’t know, but I’m going to find
out!”

“Of course, sweetheart. Just be
careful.”

Quinton returned home to have luncheon with
Gregor and me, and after he left, I said to Gregor, “I want every
bit of information you can dig up on Mark Vincent. I don’t care how
old it is or how insignificant it might seem.” And I didn’t care
how much it was going to cost. I’d bankrupt myself in order to keep
my son safe.

Gregor’s eyes lit up. “We’re going
hunting?”

“Perhaps.” There was someone who I knew
would be more than willing to assist.

He rubbed his hands together, and while he
began making phone calls in the kitchen, I went into my office and
used a disposable cell phone to contact Folana.

* * * *

Gregor’s people couldn’t learn anything more
than I already had, but Folana dug up some very interesting
information. There were people Vincent denied caring about—young
men who had to sell their bodies to survive—but who he made sure
had a decent security system in their home. There were men who had
been kind to him years ago. He paid the rent, anonymously, on the
room one lived in. For another, who was a Boy Scout leader, he made
sure the troop had enough money, again anonymously, to go to the
Jamboree. A third was given a Seeing Eye dog when he lost his
sight, and a fourth, whose HMO covered a fraction of his medical
bills, received expensive chemo and radiation therapy periodically
for the last six years of his life.

“I don’t like it, Portia,” Gregor growled
over dinner one evening. “What’s he doing with all that information
he got about Quinn?”

“We haven’t heard anything about what
happened when we were in France in 1980.”

“Huh? I mean, excuse me?”

I met his eyes across the table.

“You know why I refused to deal with
M.
Bauchet after that.” The man was a chauvinist, both
nationally and sexually, and while I’d allowed him his perception
of me as an American socialite who dabbled in wines, the hurt he’d
caused my son when he’d forbade the friendship between the two boys
put him beyond the pale.

“He believes that French boy was his one
love.”

“Still? I’d hoped…” I sighed. If that were
so, it was no wonder why none of his relationships with women over
the years had lasted longer than six months at the most.

However, none of what I learned led me to
believe that Mark Vincent intended to put my son’s life in danger,
and so I filed it all away.

If it turned out I was wrong, if anything
happened to Quinton because of the WBIS agent, I would have no
qualms in using what I’d learned to destroy him. And then I would
take apart the WBIS, one brick at a time.

* * * *

Gregor handed me the phone. “It’s
Allison.”

“Hello, Allison. How—”

“Please tell me you’re free on March
twenty-third!”

“—are you?” I couldn’t remember hearing her
so distracted. “What’s going on?”

“Sorry, sorry. State is sponsoring a
reception and ball for the ambassador of Bosnia and
Herzegovina.”

“And?”

“It’s at the Anthony Wayne Convention
Center, and they’ve hired Chance for the catering service. If
they’re happy with his food—and they should be, he’s amazing!—this
will help get his business off the ground.”

“Why do I need to attend?”

“I’m hoping you’ll use him for your next
charity event. You said you’d consider him…” She was silent for a
moment. “So, are you available?”

“As a matter of fact, I am.”

“And you’ll come?”

“For you, Allison? I’ll be there.”

“God bless you! I’ll e-mail you all the
details, darling, but now I have to make more phone calls.”

“Allison.”

“What?”

“Don’t forget to breathe!”

She laughed and hung up.

Fortunately, Madame Rosa had created a
wonderful silk gown for me in a shade of gray she called smoke,
which she insisted would bring out the color of my eyes.

Nigel would have loved it.

* * * *

As it turned out, Gregor was unavailable to
drive me to the Center. However, Quinton was free, and he
volunteered to accompany me.

* * * *

It was a long evening.

In spite of my sincerest hope, Senator
Wexler was there at the ball, deep in conversation with a man
Quinton informed me was DCI Edward Holmes.

The first time I’d met the officious senator
had been some years before, but earlier this year, at a charity
event his wife Elizabeth sponsored, he’d asked for a dance.

He spent the next five minutes spouting
platitudes and inanities, holding me so tightly that afterward I’d
wondered if he’d left fingerprints on my ribs.