Chapter Ten
“Here are the papers you asked for, Mr. St. James.”
Oblivious to his secretary’s presence, Trent continued to stand at the window, staring out.
It was a habit he’d developed since returning to work three weeks before.
Through the wide tinted glass, he could watch Boston bustling by below.
Steel-and-glass towers glittered beside elegant brownstones in an architectural potpourri.
Thick traffic weaved and charged on the streets.
In sweats and colorful running shorts, joggers paced themselves along the path beside the river.
Then there was the river itself, streaming with boats, sails puffed full of warm spring breezes.
“Mr. St. James?”
“Yes?” He glanced around at his secretary.
“I’ve brought you the papers you requested.”
“Thank you, Angela.” In an old habit, he looked at his watch. It occurred to him, painfully, that he had rarely thought of the time when he’d been with C.C. “It’s after five. You should go home to your family.”
Angela hesitated. She’d worked for Trenton for six years.
It had only been during the past couple of weeks that he had begun calling her by her first name or inquiring about her family.
The day before, he’d actually complimented her on her dress.
The change in him had the entire staff baffled.
As his secretary, she felt obligated to dig out the source of it.
“May I speak with you a minute?”
“All right. Would you like to sit down?”
“No, sir. I hope you won’t consider this out of place, Mr. St. James, but I wanted to know if you’re feeling well.”
A ghost of a smile played around his mouth. “Don’t I look well?”
“Oh, yes, of course. A little tired perhaps. It’s just that since you returned from Bar Harbor, you seem distracted, and different somehow.”
“You could say I am distracted. I am different, and to answer your original question, no, I don’t think I am entirely well.”
“Mr. St. James, if there’s anything I can do...”
Studying her, he sat on the edge of his desk.
He had hired her because she was efficient and quick.
As he recalled, he had nearly passed her over because she’d had two small children.
It had worried him that she wouldn’t be able to balance her responsibilities, but he’d taken what he’d considered a chance. It had worked very well indeed.
“Angela, how long have you been married?”
“Married?” Thrown off, she blinked. “Ten years.”
“Happily?”
“Yes, Joe and I are happy.”
Joe, he mused. He hadn’t even known her husband’s name. Hadn’t bothered to find it out. “Why?”
“Why, sir?”
“Why are you happy?”
“I... I suppose because we love each other.”
He nodded, gesturing to prod her along. “And that’s enough?”
“It certainly helps you get through the rough spots.” She smiled a little, thinking of her Joe. “We’ve had some of them, but one of us always manages to pull the other through.”
“You consider yourself a team then. So you have a great deal in common?”
“I don’t know about that. Joe likes football and I hate it.
He loves jazz, and I don’t understand it.
” It wouldn’t occur to her until later that this was the first time she’d felt completely at ease with Trent since she’d taken the job.
“Sometimes I feel like wearing earplugs all weekend. Whenever I feel like shipping him out, I think about what my life would be without him. And I don’t like what I see.
” Taking a chance, she stepped closer. “Mr. St. James, if this is about Marla Montblanc getting married last week, well, I’d just like to say that you’re better off. ”
“Marla got married?”
Truly baffled, Angela shook her head. “Yes, sir. Last week, to that golf pro. It was in all the papers.”
“I must have missed it.” There had been other things in the papers that had captured his attention.
“I realize you’d been seeing her for quite a while.”
Seeing her, Trent mused. Yes, that cool, passionless phrase described their relationship perfectly. “Yes, I had been.”
“You’re not—upset?”
“About Marla? No.” The fact was he hadn’t thought of her in weeks. Since he’d walked into a garage and spotted a pair of scarred boots.
Another woman, Angela realized. And if she’d had this kind of effect on the boss, she had all of Angela’s support. “Sir, if someone—something else,” she corrected cautiously, “is on your mind, you may be overanalyzing the situation.”
The comment surprised him enough to make him smile again. “Do I overanalyze, Angela?”
“You’re very meticulous, Mr. St. James, and analyze details finitely, which works very well in business. Personal matters can’t always be dealt with logically.”
“I’ve been coming to that same conclusion myself.” He stood again. “I appreciate the time.”
“My pleasure, Mr. St. James.” And it certainly had been. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“No, thank you.” He turned back to the window. “Good night, Angela.”
“Good night.” She was grinning when she closed the door at her back.
Trent stood where he was for some time. No, he hadn’t noticed the announcement of Marla’s wedding. The papers had also been full of the upcoming sale of The Towers. “Bar Harbor landmark to become newest St. James Hotel,” he remembered. “Rumors of lost treasures sweeten the deal.”
Trent wasn’t certain where the leak had come from, though he wasn’t surprised by it.
As he’d expected, his lawyers had grumbled over the clause Lilah had insisted on.
Whispers of emeralds had sneaked down the hallways.
It was only natural that they would find their way onto the street and into print.
Newspapers and tabloids had been rife with speculation on the Calhoun emeralds for more than a week. They’d been termed priceless and tragic and legendary—all the right adjectives to ensure more newsprint.
Fergus Calhoun’s business exploits had been rehashed, along with his wife’s suicide. An enterprising reporter had even managed to track down Colleen Calhoun aboard a cruise ship in the Ionian Sea. The grande dame’s pithy reply had been printed in italics.
“ Humbug .”
He wondered if C.C. had seen the papers. Of course, she had, he thought. Just as she’d probably been hounded by the press.
How was she taking it? Was she hurt and miserable, forced to answer questions when some nosy reporter stuck a tape recorder in her face? He smiled a little. Forced? He imagined she’d throw a dozen reporters out of the garage if they had the nerve to try.
God, he missed her. And missing her was eating him alive. He woke up each morning wondering what she was doing. He went to bed each night to toss restlessly as thoughts of her invaded his brain. When he slept, she was in his dreams. She was his dream.
Three weeks, he thought. He should have adjusted by now. Yet every day that he was here and she was somewhere else, it got worse.
The revised contracts for the sale of The Towers were sitting on his desk. He should have signed them days ago. Yet he couldn’t make himself take that final step. The last time he had looked at them, he had only been able to focus on three words.
Catherine Colleen Calhoun.
He’d read it over and over, remembering the first time she’d told him her name, tossing it at him as though it had been a weapon. She’d had grease on her face, Trenton remembered. And fire in her eyes.
Then he would think of other times, odd moments, careless words.
The way she had scowled at him from her perch on the arm of the sofa while he’d had tea with Coco.
The look on her face when they’d stood on the terrace together, watching the sea.
How perfectly her mouth had fit to his when he had kissed her under an arbor of wisteria not yet in bloom.
It would be blooming now, he mused. Those first fragrant flowers would be opening. Would she think of him at all when she walked there?
If she did, he was very much afraid the thoughts wouldn’t be kind.
She’d cursed him when she’d seen him last. She’d leveled those deep green eyes at him and had hoped that the kiss, the last kiss they’d shared, would keep him up at night.
He doubted even she could know how completely her wish had come true.
Rubbing his tired eyes, he walked back to his desk. It was, as always, in perfect order. As his business was—as his life had been.
Things had changed, he was forced to admit. He had changed, but perhaps he hadn’t changed so completely. Once again, he picked up the contracts to study them. He was still a skilled and organized businessman, one who knew how to maneuver a deal and make it work to his advantage.
He picked up his pen and tapped it lightly on the papers. A germ of an idea had rooted in his mind a few days before. Now he sat quietly and let it form, shift, realign.
It was unusual, he considered. Maybe even mildly eccentric, but... but, he thought as a smile began to curve his mouth, if he played his cards right, it could work. It was his job to make it work. Slowly he let out a long breath. It might just be the most important deal of his life.
He picked up the phone and, employing all of the St. James clout, began to turn the first wheels.
Hank finished sanding the fender on the ’69 Mustang, then stood back to admire his work. “Coming along just fine,” he called to C.C.
She glanced over, but her hands were full with the brake shoes she was replacing above her head. “It’s going to be a beauty. I’m glad we got the shot at reconditioning it.”
“You want me to start on the primer?”
She swore as brake fluid dripped onto her cheek. “No. You told me three times today that you’ve got a hot date tonight. Get cleaned up and take off.”
“Thanks.” But he’d been too well trained to leave without replacing tools and material. “You found another house yet?”
“No.” She ignored the sudden ache in her stomach and concentrated on her work. “We’re all going out tomorrow to look.”