15. “Oh Yeah, I’m A Wild One” #2
Warren was not his father. He was nothing like Magnus. But damn, he couldn’t help but imagine how having such a mentor might heal old wounds his own father carved.
“Ah, gentlemen, you all remember my daughter, Olivia.”
Soren turned and the warmth curdled inside of him.
She moved through the crowd like a shark sensing blood in the water.
Her ice-blue silk gown rippled from every curve, and her blonde hair, swept off her neck, revealed a string of diamonds at the base of her throat.
She was elegance incarnate, and as dangerous and unpredictable as a squall ripping through a cobalt sky.
“Soren.” She laid her hand flat against his chest, over his heart, as if invited to do so. “You certainly clean up well.” Her smile blazed for the room as eavesdroppers chuckled at his expense. Her fingers smoothed his lapel, a wifely little performance staged for her father.
Warren’s eyes tracked the motion and raised his glass in a silent salute, as if offering Soren his blessing. But Soren wasn’t interested.
Taking Olivia’s hand, he lowered it back to her side with a warning squeeze of pressure. She caught his message and laughed, as if to say, we’ll see.
“How long have you two been an item?” a woman in a deep emerald gown asked.
Before he could correct her mistake, Olivia answered for the both of them.
“Soren and I have been friends since childhood.” She looped her arm around his, closing her fingers over the hand that had just tried removing her touch.
“Remember how we used to play on the docks together whenever my family summered in Hideaway Bay?”
Stunned by her deliberate implication, his eyes narrowed on her smiling face. Such performance and artifice. He wondered if there was anything real there at all. Now, he only saw her with frigid clarity, a woman with a motive and a penchant for always getting her way.
He wondered how he ever misjudged her enough to think her agreeable and pliant. A mistake he wouldn’t make again.
From the soft laugh to her gentle poise, he’d misjudged breeding for warmth. But this was no mild, agreeable creature. This was a piranha, beautiful, even ornamental at first glance, but capable of stripping prey to the bone in seconds flat.
Every calculated touch advanced her in this little game she was playing. She’d inserted herself as a pawn, working her way across the board, dead set on crowning herself queen. He nearly admired the artistry. But she’d fixed her sights on the wrong king.
Pressing close to his side, she rose on her toes as if to whisper a tender word against his cheek. “There’s still time for Daddy to change his mind, you know.”
“This way,” someone called, and Soren turned just as light flashed, scoring white across his vision. He blinked as a photographer dissolved back into the crowd.
He’d had enough.
Squaring his cuffs, he broke from Olivia’s octopus-like grip. “If you’ll excuse me. I see someone I must catch. Olivia, why don’t you tell the ladies about the work you’ve been doing with your father?” Anchoring her to the group of nosy women, he made his way toward the door.
Texting his driver, he ordered his car to be brought up right away.
When he crossed paths with Warren again, the older man once again tried to monopolize him. Like father, like daughter. “Soren, come meet the Rasputins.”
“Hello.” Soren offered a quick greeting, stood for a few minutes of small talk, then told Warren he’d see him on the green first thing.
Mercifully, he made it in and out in under two hours. But when he texted Jocelyn to see if she was still awake, she sadly didn’t answer.
Disappointment only stung for a split second. She needed to rest up. Tomorrow was a big day for her, and afterward he planned to keep her up all night.
On the drive back to the hotel, he called Logan again.
He sounded tired when he picked up, and the television played softly in the background. “Your dog’s afraid of thunder.”
“Is it raining there?”
“Pouring. A storm tore in off the coast about an hour ago. You almost lost power.”
“The generators will kick in if anything goes out.”
“I gotta say, Soren, it’s no treat having a two hundred pound horse on your lap. I think King believes he’s a lap dog.”
He thought of all the times King deferred to Cordelia. “Yeah, he’s a bit sensitive. I’ve been working on ways to toughen him up.”
“You should get one of those weighted vests. I hear they calm dogs down during storms.”
The thought of King, frightened and alone, triggered a strange paternal desire to rush home and protect him. But that was impossible. He still had to get through tomorrow morning’s round of golf before he could jet back home.
“Give him some treats and try rubbing his belly. He loves that.”
“I don’t think you understand my current predicament. He’s got me pinned to the floor with no intention of letting me up.”
“Try putting on music to drown out the thunder.”
“I have the TV on, but it’s not really helping. He’s shaking like a leaf. Face it. You got a lemon.”
“He’s not a lemon,” he growled, hating the thought of his boy trembling. “He’s only three.”
“That’s like twenty-one in dog years.”
“When did you become such a fucking dog expert?” Frustrated that he was two hundred miles away and helpless to help his dog, he snapped, “Keep petting him and don’t leave him alone if he’s scared. I’ll check back in in the morning.” And ended the call with a huff.
Soren arrived at the country club just as dawn broke clean and cold over the Newport golf course. The conditions were reserved for the truly ambitious, not those with champagne headaches who would wince at even the greyest October sky.
He was ready to start the day. Every hole moved him one step closer to getting home. He searched the club promenade and course for any sign of Warren. All the LSVs were parked neatly in a slanted row, young caddies waiting sleepily to earn their tips that day, but the man was nowhere in sight.
Frost still silvered the rough where the sun hadn’t reached. Soren selected the most alert caddie. “Are you available?”
“Yes, sir.” The young boy instantly perked up.
“Good. You’re with me. I want to move fast today, so try to keep up.”
The boy nodded and moved Soren’s clubs to an unclaimed golf cart.
Soren checked his watch as he paced, waiting for Warren to arrive.
The fairways rolled out ahead in long ribbons of green.
Beyond the fourth green, the Atlantic threw itself against the rocks in slow, foaming crashes.
Salt air carried the mineral bite of the sea on a dick-shriveling breeze.
Later, the scent of cut grass and cigar smoke drifting from the back holes would take the lead.
“Christ, Hawthorne, this is a tee time made for summer,” Warren called, strolling in with a privately appointed caddie at his back. Unlike the boy Soren had selected, this middle-aged caddie wore a navy polo shirt with the Aldrich crest. “You got something against sleep?”
“No, sir. Just always been a morning person.”
He gave an approving nod and squinted out at the horizon.
“I think you might be trying to get one over on me.” His caddie followed them to the first hole as Soren’s fumbled for his driver.
“But I’ll have you know, I’m a competitive son of a bitch, so if that was your plan you’re about to see it fall to ruin. ”
After a great struggle, Soren relieved the boy of the club. “I love a good challenge, sir.”
“You were here first.” Warren waved him to the tee.
“No, no. You first. I insist,” he politely declined.
It was like watching a brittle strand of pasta slowly soften as it warmed up. Warren’s first hole was evidence he still had some champagne in him from last night, but he soon found his groove and proved he’d grown up swinging clubs on courses like this.
By seven-forty, they’d made the turn onto the fourth. Every step closer to the last hole had Soren recalculating his exit.
The eighteenth hole should wrap right on schedule by eleven-thirty. Wheels-up by noon, forty-five minutes to Portland, then the drive into Hideaway Bay with time to spare before the room yelled surprise at two.
“That was a nice event last night, sir.” He took his shot, and the ball landed softly a hundred and sixty yards out.
“Thank you. Beautiful strike.” It earned no more than a flicker of his attention. “I was glad I had the chance to make a few introductions for you.”
“I appreciate it.”
Warren ambled up beside him, ruddy and unbothered, dropping his ball into place. “You’ve got your father’s swing. All shoulders, no wrist.”
Soren laughed, unruffled by the barb, expecting a few jabs from a man as competitive as Aldrich.
Warren drove his ball down the course, coming just a few feet short of where he’d landed his.
They walked the fairway toward the green, caddies trailing with the bags. “I lost track of you towards the end of the night,” Warren said, crouching behind his ball to read the slope. He took his time.
“I’m sure you had other guests that deserved your attention.”
“You know,” Warren said, still crouched, sighting down his line, “I’ve been thinking about your Warsaw numbers all morning. My people ran them twice.”
Soren stilled at the fringe. “And?”