Page 22 of Shopping for an Heir
Suzanne sat at the head of the enormous oval conference table, a relic of its own from the nineteenth century that Norm Phelps’ grandfather had imported from the Ukraine when he’d founded Phelps, Miller in 1911. Both the Phelps and the Miller families still had descendants in partner roles, all male. She was the second woman to make partner, and relished every second of being on top.
Her eyes darted to Gerald.
She would love to be on top of him.
The last hour had been a study in chaos. As she shuffled folders and managed the never-ending flow of documents Letitia and Margaret provided, she ran through the facts as she knew them.
James McCormick was interested in buying the relic.
He was not the same anonymous donor Harrison Kulli represented.
More people knew about the relic than previously recognized.
The relic was increasingly endangered as the circle of knowledge widened. The more people who knew about it, the more likely it was to be stolen or desecrated.
And yet, exposing its existence to official institutions wouldn’t necessarily help.
“Change of plans,” Norm said, walking into the room with that penguin-like gait he had. He introduced himself to Gerald, looked at Suzanne, and said, “Turns out the MFA archaeologist has no knowledge of the item. We had to be careful.” He reached down for a leather bag that looked like it contained a tiny bowling ball.
Lifted it like it weighed a ton.
“Here it is. Your inheritance,” he said to Gerald, who looked appropriately shocked. Glancing at the door, twisting in his seat to do a 180-degree spin, he became increasingly angry.
“No armed guard? No security of any kind? Are you crazy? That thing’s worth eight figures—” As he cut off his own words, Gerald’s face paled, eyes going wide like moons.
Suzanne felt sorry for him.
“We do not need security for an item no one’s heard of,” Phelps insisted, pinching the bridge of his nose. “And there’s a team of six guys out in the hall. Don’t worry.”
“James McCormick has heard of it. Worse—Harrison Kulli sure as hell has. That guy would smother his own grandmother for a scratch lottery ticket,” Gerald said with a grunt of disgust.
Suzanne nodded.
Phelps simmered.
“Take a careful look. Is this the relic you recall?” Phelps slid the bag across the table to Gerald, who unzipped it. The sound of the ancient brass zipper opening was like the gates to hell creaking on their hinges.
She held her breath.
Gerald’s face went remarkably blank.
And that’s when she realized just how serious this really was. When the man wiped all emotion from his body, it was time to set your own alert scale on high.
“Yes,” he said simply.
“You never told me,” she blurted out, the words completely unexpected.
His eyes met hers.
“There’s a lot I’ve never told you.”
“Clearly.”
Phelps cleared his throat. “I’ll leave you two to figure this all out. Discretion is paramount.”
“Of course,” Suzanne said, not looking away from Gerald.
He stared, unblinking, at the open bag.
“Harold Hopewell. Never met the guy. I’ve heard of him. Hell, everyone has. Why this? Why me? And why does James McCormick want the relic?” Gerald’s words came out like an assault weapon being fired.
“You told him about it,” Suzanne said, her voice low.
“No, I didn’t,” he said gruffly. “You think I went back to work and started bragging?”
The Gerald she knew would have kept his mouth shut.
Phelps stopped in the doorway, his back still to them. “I can answer that,” he said quietly, turning around and almost closing the door behind him. He held onto the doorknob like a tether.
“Why?” Suzanne asked.
“Because wealthy, self-made men like to acquire. It’s not about the money. Not even about the power. They just want to possess something no one else has.”
“That’s too simple,” Suzanne argued.
“Simple or not, it’s true. Once James McCormick learned about the relic—however he learned about it—he wanted it. Simple.” He exited, leaving Suzanne alone with Gerald.
Who was a robot.
“Say something,” she urged.
Reaching into the bag, he pulled out a velvet pouch, making a clear effort to lift the heavy object. The velvet was old, sun-stained and the color of faded rust. As he pulled gently on the drawstring, it snapped, leaving frayed ends.
And then gold. Gold and more gold, in the shape of a fertility goddess birthing a tiny human being.
Suzanne nearly laughed. It looked like a souvenir from a cheesy shop.
It was anything but.
“James McCormick can’t tell the difference between marijuana and oregano, but he wants to spend a large fortune on owning this. Why?”
“Doesn’t make sense to me either, but that’s not my job. My job is to usher you through the inheritance process. Step one’s been done. You got the papers. Step two is: do you want to keep it? Sell it? Donate it?”
“I want to hold it.”
And he did, for the next two minutes, cradling it, those damn hands of his making love to a pre-Buddhist gold statue that supposedly held the secret to the oldest known civilization in the world.
And damn if Suzanne wasn’t a little bit envious.
Of the statue.
“Dinner,” he said, eyes flashing as they met hers.
“Dinner?” The clock on the wall read 2:21 p.m.
“Early dinner. Late lunch. Call it what you want.” He stood, carefully putting the relic back in the velvet pouch, then in the leather bag, zipping it slowly, like a surgeon making sure the stitches were perfect.
“Go out with me. Talk to me. Spend time with me. Not as a client, but as a friend. I need a friend more than I need a lawyer right now.”
“Finally,” she said, her voice curt, eyes burning. “You finally make a move. Friend? We both know that’s bullshit.”
His mouth spread into a smile, but his eyes were so serious.
“I’ve missed you more than I’ve realized.”
“You should.”
“Let me make it up to you.”
“You’re going to make up ten years?”
“Let me do it in time increments measured by meals out, starting with this one.”
“That’s a lot of lunches and dinners.”
“I have a healthy appetite.”
The pull of yes was hard to fight. So hard. She looked at his hands, those twitching fingers that couldn’t stay still. Restless, always, they needed to make sense of the world through touch.
She knew if she agreed to dinner that they would end up in bed.
She knew that.
And she knew she should fight this. Knew she’d get hurt.
“Yes,” she replied.
Because knowing the truth and living your life came into conflict sometimes.
“I know a great place,” he said, staring at the leather bag. “A few blocks away, tucked away behind this food court.”
He named the same restaurant where she’d just spent lunch two hours ago with Chandler the Puppy.
Her stomach flipped. “I got sick there,” she protested.
Without hesitation, he named a great Mexican place in Cambridge.
“Sold,” she said with a smile.
They stood there, the sun breaking through the clouds, the view from the conference room one of the city, the streets in the Financial District like wind tunnels. Phelps, Miller was on the fourth floor of her building, so the only view was urban, cold and utilitarian.
Each second that ticked by made anticipation build in her. All these years, she’d been so hurt. Angry. Filled with unspeakable rage.
And now that he was just a man standing in front of her, asking her to be a friend in a time of need, she felt it all recede.
But more than that—she had a chance.
A chance to get answers.
Suzanne wasn’t about to put pride before that chance.
She texted Letitia, who brought all six security guards in to take the relic back to Hopewell’s place, leaving her and Gerald ready to move on to the next phase of the day.
As they walked out of the building, Gerald in his uniform of black pants, black blazer, and white business shirt open at the neck, she watched his blank emotional state peel away as if sandblasted.
“Jesus,” he said, wiping his mouth with his hand. “Fifty million. Two billionaires are offering fifty million for that.”
“You’re wealthy.” She snapped her fingers. “Just like that.”
“I’d trade it all for—”
A box truck in front of them laid on the horn, hard and long, before he could say the next word.
The moment was lost.
He was about to say you.
She was sure.
And if he would trade it all for her, why wouldn’t he talk to her for ten years?
Walking paradox. The man was a walking paradox.
He hailed a cab with fluency and command. The ride across the river to Cambridge was quiet. Each lost in their own thoughts, both buzzed constantly by texts for various work issues, they didn’t talk.
At all.
Suzanne’s knee brushed against him as the driver took a right turn too tightly. Every bit of concentration in her body focused on the spot where they touched.
He looked at her knee. She looked at him.
They said nothing.
Deposited in front of the Mexican place, she and Gerald found their way inside. Once seated, she decided to go for the jugular.
“Ten years. Explain.”
“You could wait until they at least bring the chips and salsa, Suz. A man needs a little sustenance before being raked over the coals.”
