Cainsville: Visions Part 23

He could solve the problem by telling Neil that Olivia had dumped him. But she'd done that before, and he wasn't yet ready to accept it as her final word on the matter. He'd been fielding calls from his real estate broker, asking what he wanted to do with the house he'd bought. A house, d.a.m.n it. For them. The best G.o.dd.a.m.ned house he could find, and she'd loved it. She'd loved him. Now she just walked away? There must be more to it. And he had a good idea where that blame could be laid: on the shoulders of one Gabriel Walsh.

"Mr. Morgan?"

He glanced up sharply. When he saw the young man approaching him-mid-twenties, suit and tie, reedy and pale-James had to smooth the annoyance from his reaction. One problem with working in technology was that not everyone in the field had baseline social skills. To them, staking out James Morgan's car was a perfectly fine way to apply for a job.

A few months ago, he'd have brushed the kid off, politely but firmly, warning him this was not the way to make friends in the world that existed outside his bas.e.m.e.nt. Now, though, even if he didn't plan to run for senator for years, he had to start paying more attention to how he reacted to strangers. Especially strangers who probably had a blog, Twitter, Facebook, and serious hacker skills.

"Yes," James said, plastering on a smile. "How can I help you?"

"The question is, how can I help you?" The young man held out a card. "Tristan Crouch. The Belarus Group." He paused. "Have you heard of us?"

A salesman? G.o.d, that was even worse.

"No," James said, struggling to keep the curt edge from his voice. "I'm sorry, but I was just about to head home-"

"I heard you're scheduled to attend a dinner party with the POTUS in a few months. You could ask him about us. I'm sure he recalls us fondly. We were instrumental in his own senatorial campaign."

James stopped.

Tristan smiled. "Yes, I know, I'm too young to have done more than man the phones for that, but I'm using 'we' in the imperial sense. The group has sent me to make the first contact and to relay a few suggestions. They're interested in what they see. They just have ... concerns."

James should politely excuse himself now. Tell Tristan that he appreciated his group's interest and he'd love to have drinks next week, giving him time to do his research on them. But there was something in the young man's tone and in his gaze that brushed aside James's doubts, and as Tristan spoke, James began to recall hearing of this Belarus Group. He should listen.

"The most immediate concern is your change of marital status." Tristan smiled. "Or should I say the lack of a change."

James tried not to wince. d.a.m.n Olivia. Why did she have to make everything so complicated?

"We like Ms. Taylor-Jones," Tristan said. "We believe she complements you perfectly. Attractive, but not unduly so. Ambitious, but again not unduly so. She's bright and witty and charming. From a solid local family. And now she comes with a very intriguing backstory, and we are impressed that you appear to see past that. Most men in your position would not."

"There's no question of that. I love her."

Tristan's smile held a touch of condescension, unsettling in one so young. "That always helps. We feel that your choice to support her through this tragic revelation will further endear you to voters. However, it would be better if you were more actively supporting her. We saw the photo in the Post."

Now James did wince. "I-"

"A biker." Tristan's lips twisted in distaste.

"And an MBA student who is clearly trying to get out of the family business. As for his a.s.sociation with Olivia, it is purely professional. They share a lawyer."

"Which brings me to issue number two. How well do you know Mr. Walsh?"

"His reputation-"

"We deal in fact, Mr. Morgan. Not gossip." Tristan opened his briefcase and handed James two folders. "That is the information we have collected on both Mr. Walsh and Mr. Gallagher. Neither is someone we wish to see a.s.sociating with our candidate's future wife."

"I-"

"Our concern extends beyond their reputations for criminal and unsavory activities." The young man's voice dropped to a soothing murmur. "We fear for Ms. Jones's safety, as we believe you should."

"What?"

"We can see how she would find these two men appealing. They are both attractive and single, both powerful and successful in their own way, much like you. There is also the added appeal of..." Tristan seemed to search for a word. "Edge, perhaps. Excitement. Danger. These men have it in spades. While you..."

James heard the words hanging between them. While you do not.

You are James Morgan. You've made every most eligible bachelor list in the city for three years running. Women flirt with you everyplace you go. They buy you drinks. They give you their numbers. They pa.s.s you hotel room keys. And who is Olivia Taylor-Jones? The daughter of convicted serial killers. Yet she dumps you for a biker. A twenty-two-year-old biker.

He heard the words as if someone whispered them in his ear, and he felt the outrage of them.

If you want her, she should be yours.

He looked up sharply. He could have sworn he actually did hear those words, but Tristan only stood there, waiting and watching him.

She should be yours. You deserve her. They do not.

"I'll leave those files with you, Mr. Morgan," Tristan said. "And I'll leave you with two thoughts. One, we would be very pleased if you reunited with your fiancee. Two, if you do not, and there is no one there to protect her..." His eyes bored into James's. "She is dealing with dangerous men who will hurt her. You need to understand that."

James nodded.

"Tell me you understand that."

James felt his lips moving, as if someone was pulling them for him. "Yes, I understand that. I'll look after her. I'll fix this."

Tristan smiled. "Excellent. We'll be in touch soon."

He walked past James, heading for the exit. James glanced down at his hands-at the files and the business card. On the card he saw only a name. No contact information. He turned.

"Do you have...?"

He was alone in the parking garage.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO.

Gabriel had to stop by the office. He left the car idling as he ran in. While he was gone, my cell phone rang. It was James.

"We need to talk," he said when I answered.

"This isn't a good time," I said. "I'm-"

"Cote d'Azur."

"What?"

"Cote d'Azur. The French Riviera. Next weekend. The two of us. To get this d.a.m.ned mess sorted out."

I almost said that I wasn't free next weekend. But that implied I'd go otherwise. The door opened and Gabriel slid back into the car.

I motioned I was on the phone and started opening my door to take the call outside, but he put the car in drive, with a flash of his watch, as if to say we had somewhere to be.

"Liv?" James prompted.

"There's nothing to sort out," I said. "I'm sorry. It didn't work. We tried-"

"Tried? Two dates, Olivia. I got two dates and a d.a.m.ned coffee before you were off running around with-" He sucked back the rest and his tone smoothed. "We haven't tried, and we can't, not here in Chicago, with everything that's going on. You're confused-"

"I'm not confused, James. I'm-" I looked over at Gabriel and lowered my voice again. "It's my fault, okay? Blame me. But I've made up my mind. We-"

"What do you want from me, Liv? Clearly you're waiting for the right response and I'm not giving it. I've tried staying away. I've tried not staying away. I want this, Olivia. I want you."

"And to h.e.l.l with what I want?"

"I don't think you know what you want."

I bit my tongue. Hard. When I could manage it, I said, "I do know, James. And I'm sorry if it doesn't fit your plans, but that's my decision. Goodbye."

I hung up and exhaled.

"You made the right choice," Gabriel said.

I glanced over, to make sure he was actually talking about my phone conversation. Of course he was. It wouldn't occur to Gabriel not to eavesdrop-or to pretend he hadn't.

I made a noise in my throat, one that most people would interpret as "I don't want to talk about it."

He ignored it. "I understand it may be difficult to give up the financial and social stability that a marriage to James Morgan would offer. Yet while you may not be living in the style to which you are accustomed, you seem comfortable enough to manage until you receive your trust fund."

"You think I was marrying James for 'financial and social stability'?"

He frowned, as if to say, Why else?

I shook my head. "I was marrying him because I loved him, Gabriel."

He gave a derisive snort.

"Excuse me?" I said.

A look over his shades. "You can't really expect me to believe you'd tie yourself to a man like Morgan for some silly romantic notion. You're better than that."

"I think that's meant to be a compliment, but given the choice between lowering your opinion of me and letting myself be painted as a gold digger-"

"Gold digging would be marrying a rich seventy-year-old in hopes he'll die while you can still enjoy his money. You chose a suitable match-in age, social standing, wealth, and looks. A man who would provide a satisfactory and easy life for you. Traditionally, that is the way for a woman to secure her future."

"Sure. In the nineteenth century."

"And that doesn't apply today? In your social circles?"

He had a point, but I wouldn't concede it. "It wasn't like that with me. I have my trust fund, as you've pointed out. I had a family business that I could have joined. I have a graduate degree. Your low opinion of James is based on the fact you were able to fleece him, and to you that makes him a fool. James Morgan is a good and decent man."

"Which is why it wouldn't have worked."

"Ouch."

"That's not an insult, Olivia. James Morgan is completely decent and completely mediocre, and he'd have made you completely miserable. At least if you were marrying him for stability, you'd get something out of it. But love?" His expression conveyed his opinion of the concept. "I'm glad to see you're done with him. Don't backslide again."

"Backslide? Weren't you the one taking money to help me get back with him?"

His hands tightened on the wheel. There was a moment of silence when I wished I hadn't said anything. Yes, he'd insulted me, but in his world there was nothing wrong with doing whatever it took to find a stable life.

"I didn't take money for that," he said finally, adjusting his grip on the wheel. "Morgan insisted on making it part of the deal, so I agreed, but I didn't accept payment for a service I didn't provide. I wasn't planning to accept..." He trailed off.

"To accept what?"

He shook his head, gaze forward. "Nothing."

"Okay, let's ... I'd like to move past that. Put it behind us."

He exhaled. "So would I."

"That doesn't mean I'm okay with it," I said. "Or that I don't think you'll do it again."

"I won't." We were stopped at a light. He took off his shades and met my gaze. "I know I made a mistake. I knew I was making a mistake at the time. Even if I didn't see the harm in it, you felt betrayed. I understand that. It will not happen again."

It would. Not that he was lying. He meant it. But a time would come when he'd betray my trust again and he'd tell himself it was necessary or that I wouldn't be upset or that it didn't count. I had to deal with the possibility. I didn't need to forgive him if it happened again, but I couldn't tell myself it wouldn't. Either way I'd get hurt, but at least if I had my eyes open, it might dull the sting.

I nodded, and it must not have looked convincing enough, because he kept his gaze on me and said, "I mean it, Olivia."

"I know you do. Thank you."

He nodded, put on his sungla.s.ses, and roared through as the light turned green.

I felt more centered after my talk with Gabriel. It was like sweeping away the last of the cobwebs, the stage clear to start again. It helped that he was in a rare truly good mood. We went to dinner at my favorite steak house-he'd made a reservation.

As we ate, Gabriel regaled me with the story of a past case, one he knew would amuse me. Compared with other diners deep in conversation, his gestures were restrained, his affect muted, his tone even, but for Gabriel he was positively animated. Possibly even a little drunk, having finished almost an entire gla.s.s of wine. His blue eyes glowed with a warmth I'd never seen, even at his most engaged, and I wanted to lean back and bask in it. But every time I relaxed, a little voice reminded me I needed to discuss something with him while he was in a good mood.

When we moved on to dessert, I worked up the nerve. I took a bite of my cheesecake, then said, as casually as I could manage, "Earlier, being at the station, it reminded me of something."

He sipped his coffee, brows arching, waiting for me to continue.

"Have you identified those photos yet?"

As soon as I said the words, I regretted them. He froze, coffee mug at his lips. He'd been having a good night, something he probably hadn't had in a very long time, something he deserved, and with six words I'd completely f.u.c.ked it up.