Eve of Passion. A.C. ArthurЧитать онлайн книгу.
shook his head. “You know, you look more like Susan every day,” he began, his voice a little lower, his eyes... Were they blurring?
“Sometimes I hear you talking on the phone and I could swear it was her. I just listen and remember and miss her all over again.”
She reminded him of her mother. Of course, she did look like Susan Howerton with her high cheekbones and eyes often called exotic due to their natural upward tilt. They also shared the same chocolate-brown complexion and wide smile. Janelle knew all this, had known it all her life. Still, when her father said it, when it caused him to miss her mother even more, she never knew what to say or how to handle it.
“You know she was the one to first talk about politics. She was sure it was the direction I needed to go in. It took me too long to realize she was telling the truth.”
Janelle took a deep breath, listening to her father’s deep and somehow desolate voice.
“I’ll see if I can work a quick trip into my schedule, Daddy,” she said, clenching her fingers as she did. “But I cannot make any promises.”
Darren smiled. He stood then and came around the table. His hand was on hers as he leaned down closer, kissing her on the cheek. “You’ll do wonderful, baby girl, just wonderful,” he said before standing and leaving her alone once more.
When he was gone, the only thing that Janelle could recall about her father’s presence was that he smelled like Calvin Klein Obsession cologne. That scent was just as dependable as her father had always been in her life. She’d always been able to count on him, always been able to run to him or her mother with whatever issues she had and know without a doubt they’d move mountains to fix them. Yet she hadn’t come running home to them the night Jack had assaulted her. She hadn’t run to anyone, for that matter. She’d handled the situation entirely on her own and she was still doing so. The only difference now was that she was tired of hauling guilt and fear around like carry-on luggage.
* * *
“I need your help, Janelle. I’m desperate,” Rebecca Lockwood said from the other end of the phone. “I cannot bail on this client. Mal Harford is the owner of Pacific Royal Airlines. He’s eccentric, to put it nicely, his wallet’s bigger than his mouth, and what he wants he gets, all the time. Please say you’ll do this for me.”
Sitting in her office two days after the very strange conversation with her father, Janelle had thought she’d managed to escape drama for today. She had been wrong.
“Slow down. Wait a minute. What are you asking me to do exactly?” She really didn’t want to do anything. Her workload was big enough and the Parents’ Association was driving her absolutely insane over this homecoming. Clients that just signed checks and let her do her job were her favorite and she wished she had more of them.
Rebecca took a deep breath, let it out on a heavily exaggerated huff that made Janelle roll her eyes, then continued, “My younger sister Alexa just called to tell me she’s having surgery on Friday morning. Her husband is serving his second tour in Iraq and she has a six-month-old daughter and nobody to help take care of either of them. So I have to leave for Colorado first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Okay, sorry to hear that. Hope the surgery and the caretaking go well,” Janelle replied with a nod, her attention traveling to the window, where she could see the sun finally beginning to set.
“Thanks,” she said on another huff. “So what I’m asking you to do is supervise Harford’s charity masquerade ball for me. This is a yearly event and I had to beat out six other bids to get the contract. It’s Friday evening and all the vendors are in place. Everything is paid for and my staff will be on hand to assist. But this guy’s one of my biggest clients this year and I’d like to have his return business. So I need somebody really fantastic to be here just in case something goes wrong.”
Janelle didn’t immediately respond.
“But nothing will go wrong,” Rebecca continued. “I promise. There are just some really important people coming to this benefit and I want to make sure they have the best experience ever. But I have to be there for Alexa. So can you help? Please don’t make me beg, Janelle,” she finished finally.
Janelle couldn’t help but smile. She’d known Rebecca for four years, since meeting her at an event-planning conference in Orlando. They’d kept in close contact since then, seeing each other at least twice a year at other industry events.
“You’re talking about this Friday, right? As in day after tomorrow?” she asked.
“Yes. I’m sorry for the short notice, but Alexa has to have this surgery sooner rather than later.”
“I understand,” Janelle said because she did. There was nothing she wouldn’t do for Sandra or Vicki, who were the closest she would ever have to sisters. If they lived across the country and were having surgery, she’d be on a plane to them, as well.
“And all I have to do is supervise? Everything else is done?”
“Yes. I even called all the vendors to confirm this morning. I’ve briefed my staff and we did a last site visit at lunch today. So if you say yes, I can brief you on everything now and send you a complete copy of my file.”
She couldn’t say no. Janelle knew there was no good way to back out of this, and really, she didn’t want to. For as busy as she was here in Wintersage, she felt as if getting out of town for a few days might be good. Things in the Howerton household had become quite tense with the election growing closer. Not to mention the fact that having a chance to work with Mal Harford—even secondhandedly—was a great coup for her career.
“I can give you thirty minutes to brief me. Then I need you to send me everything you have on Harford and this event. I’ll make some adjustments and see when I can get up to Boston,” Janelle told her.
Rebecca used one of those thirty minutes to thank Janelle and swear her debt and gratitude. Then they got down to business, which was a welcome distraction in Janelle’s hectic life.
Ballard Dubois touched the edge of his plain black mask, lifting it slightly so that his vision would be unfettered. He hated attending these types of functions—not that he had anything against contributing to the research for and treatment of children with cancer, which was Mal Harford’s favorite project since the death of his twin daughters when they were just ten years old. It was more that he didn’t like the time it took away from working or thinking about how to move his family’s company further into the twenty-first century. Still, public appearances had always been good for Dubois Maritime Shipping, a majority of their work connections having been made through the networking of his father and his grandfather before him. So getting out, being the face of the company, was a part of the job. If he thought of it that way, he could reconcile dressing in a tuxedo and even wearing this god-awful mask for the past hour and a half.
Harford’s events always had a theme and this one was a masquerade. Ballard had to give it to the old man, he definitely knew how to draw rich and uptight socialites who were otherwise focused on making even more money than they already had out into a night of drinking and celebrating—and how to depart with some of their well-earned money. Tonight they were at Boston’s Royale Nightclub, a different scene for this batch of upper-class characters but one of such creative allure, they couldn’t resist the opportunity to attend.
The lighting and decor were phenomenal, gold, green and red illuminating the gleaming hardwood floors. Couches were strategically placed throughout the large space, while more than three hundred guests milled about sipping Perrier-Jouët, wearing formal attire and masks ranging from the ornate to the unembellished.
He’d been here for about an hour now, and he decided that thirty more minutes would meet his quota and he could head back to his penthouse. The evening had gone according to protocol as he’d spoken to two international