Fortune's Heirs: Reunion Page 8

  Patrick raised a warning brow. “You know what I mean. You need a family.”

  Jack threw up his hands. This was getting annoying. He thought only women had to listen to this kind of thing from their mothers. He would have bet anything that his father was above this kind of nonsense. Obviously he would have lost that bet.

  “I have a family, Dad. I’ve got you and Mom and those annoying people you keep telling me are my siblings.” He allowed himself a grin. He cared a great deal for his brothers and baby sister, he just wasn’t about to try to duplicate them by creating children. “I’d say that’s family enough for anyone.”

  Patrick’s eyes locked with his son’s. “A family of your own, Jack.”

  Jack gave his father an innocent look. “Were you and Mom on loan?”

  “A wife, Jack. A wife,” his father emphasized. Before Jack could say anything, Patrick added, “And kids. Lots of kids.”

  Restless, Jack moved to the window. The rain that had been threatening since yesterday had finally arrived. Sheets of water were lashing against the window. The world outside looked dreary. The world inside wasn’t much better, he thought.

  “I don’t know if I’d be any good at that,” he said, addressing his words to his father’s reflection in the window.

  “Well, you certainly won’t find out by hiding behind corporate reports.”

  Jack whirled around. No one had ever even hinted that he was a coward. He felt a sharp flare of temper and managed to bank it down. “Not hiding, Dad, analyzing. It’s what I do. What you pay me to do, remember?”

  Patrick used the opportunity to swing the conversation back onto its original track. “Speaking of which, how’s that venture with Gloria Mendoza going?”

  He noticed that his father had conveniently dropped the woman’s married name. Had Gloria gone through legal channels to do that, or was his father just trying to set something in motion here, make him think of her as a single woman?

  No, that couldn’t be right. He and his father had an open, honest relationship. His mother might attempt a little manipulation with romance as the goal, but not his father. They were too alike, he and his father, even though the man seemed to have temporarily taken leave of his senses.

  He told his father what was foremost in his mind. “I still think you should have handed this little assignment off to someone else.” He didn’t even have to think about who he’d get in place of himself. “Like Derek. He’s got more patience than I do.”

  For a moment Patrick said nothing. Instead he thought of how he’d arranged to have his one-time protégé hire Gloria’s sister to act as his business analyst. It would have been a lie to say that he didn’t feel quite proud of himself. With a little bit of luck, things should be percolating there, as well.

  His answer to Jack was vague. “Derek’s got his hands full with other projects.”

  Did his father view him as a spoiled, pampered, rich offspring? Hadn’t he proven himself over and over again to be invaluable? “And I don’t?”

  “I told you before, Jack, this needs your touch.” And, if I don’t miss my guess, so does Gloria. Almost as much as you need hers.

  Jack scrutinized his father’s face. He could almost see the words marching through his brain. See them, but not quite make them out.

  Or maybe he didn’t want to, because that would be giving credence to something he felt shouldn’t be going on. “What are you thinking?”

  Patrick leaned back in his chair, studying his firstborn. Jack had never given him one moment’s trouble. Maybe there was such a thing as being too perfect, Patrick decided.

  “That you’re a chip off the old block. That at your age, I was determined not to slow down, either. But I discovered that I was competing against myself. You can’t win if you have yourself as your opponent.”

  Jack laughed shortly. That was true enough. But so was something else. “You also can’t lose.”

  Doing nothing but work extracted a toll on a person’s life. And work, Patrick had come to realize, was a cold mistress. “Depends on your definition of losing.”

  “I don’t have a definition of losing,” Jack told his father glibly. “Because I never intend to lose.”

  Patrick looked at his son for a long moment. Anyone else would have said the man was too cocky, that he needed to be taken down a peg. But Patrick knew that Jack was as good as his word. And failure was not an option with Jack.

  Maybe not, but a little humility was in order.

  “I hope not, Jack,” he said softly. “I sincerely hope not.”

  There was something going on, Jack thought, but he wasn’t exactly sure just what. The old man was acting funny these days. It was more than just his laid-back attitude about the company. Granted, if there was a crisis, the way there had been many times in the past, his father would be right there in the thick of it, leading the charge, rallying his subordinates. Jack smiled to himself. No one did it better than the old man.

  But when everything was going relatively smoothly, his father tended to, for lack of a better term, slack off. Maybe age was finally catching up with him. Jack couldn’t help wondering if it was time for his father to step down.

  The very thought saddened him. No matter what his father said, Fortune-Rockwell represented the sum total of his life’s work. The senior Fortune would go out of his mind if he retired. No, better to have him where he was and, if necessary, he could pick up the slack for his father. After all, it wasn’t as if there was anything more important to Patrick than the company.

  Unexpectedly, a strange, hollow feeling made itself evident for just a split second.

  Is that all there is? At the end of the day, is that all there is?

  He’d been paying too much attention to his father, Jack thought. Not everyone was cut out for a wife and kids, no matter what his father thought. The one love of his life was dead, and he damn well had no intentions of looking for a substitute.

  Glancing at his father, he saw that the latter looked as if he was gearing up again. Jack moved to leave. “I guess I’ll go see how your project is doing.”

  Jack saw his father’s mouth pull into a satisfied smile. He doubted if it had to do with the speech he was supposed to be writing. But he isn’t about to ask.

  “Good idea,” was all he said to Jack’s departing back.

  The sooner he was done, Jack told himself as he parked on the far side of the mall, the sooner he could get out of Dodge, or San Antonio as it were, and back to the fast-paced life he thrived on in New York.

  Maybe that was what his father needed, as well, he mused. To get out of here and get back into the mainstream, back to New York where business was business and everything else came in second.

  He walked in through one of the four department stores that made up the quadrangle that defined the mall. His mind elsewhere, he made his way to the inner core of the mall without noticing any of the displays.

  But as he hurried along the second floor of the mall, his surroundings sank in despite his preoccupation. He realized that Gloria had been right. There were a lot of people frequenting the mall. It was a weekday. The stores had only been open for about an hour and yet there were a great many people milling around, shopping, socializing, on their way to one place or another. Since it was neither lunchtime nor a holiday, he figured this had to represent an average day.

  Blind luck?

  No, that was a bit harsh, he thought. He had to give the woman her due. Talking to her, he’d come away with the feeling that although she seemed bullheaded, she also seemed to have something on the ball.

  He’d done a little poking around into her background, looking into her past business dealings. From all appearances, she had done well in Denver. And there was every indication that she would have continued to do well had she remained there.

  But she’d chosen to move back to Texas and start over again. Why?

  Was it just to get away from an ex-husband and come home, or something else? Were there memori
es that haunted her, causing her to leave?

  He could understand that. When Ann had died so suddenly, leaving him in an emotional abyss, he’d almost dropped out. He’d found himself unable to deal with seeing her face everywhere he went, remembering the times they’d spent together. It had been hell. If he hadn’t had only one semester to go and his father hadn’t been so persuasive, he might very well have just given in to his desire to become a beach bum.

  Who was he kidding? He was far too much of a type A personality to be content sipping drinks out of a hollowed-out coconut shell and make that his life’s preoccupation.

  So why had Gloria decided to suddenly uproot everything and start all over again? That was something he hadn’t been able to find out. He didn’t believe she’d just wanted to come home again. You went where the money was.

  Reaching her shop, he saw that the glass doors no longer afforded a view of the interior. There was paper taped to the inside to keep passersby from looking in. Given her personality, he found that somewhat unusual. She struck him as someone who enjoyed an audience.

  Jack tried the door and it gave.

  Leaving the door unlocked was more like her, he mused. The next moment the realization that he thought himself familiar enough with the woman to be able to second-guess her stopped him in his tracks. He had no idea what she was capable of, he silently insisted.

  Slipping inside, he saw that rather than a team of people, there was only one worker around, a slender youth bending over a can of paint, preparing to pour the contents into a paint tray. He had on a cap, pulled down low, and there was periwinkle-blue paint drizzled all over his coveralls.

  The other workers were probably on a break, taking advantage of the woman, he decided. Good thing he’d decided to show up. Apparently she only knew how to order around one person at a time.

  Coming up behind the youth, he addressed the painter’s back. “Excuse me, do you know where I can find Gloria Johansen?”

  Startled, the painter swung around. The radio was turned on and although the music was soft, it had obviously masked any noise he might have made entering the store.

  A grin flashed and he recognized it instantly. “What’s it worth to you?”

  He scowled. Up close, he noticed the figure, even in coveralls, was pretty curvy. “Gloria.”

  She set down the roller and laughed as she picked up a towel to dry her hands. “And here I thought you didn’t recognize me.”

  He wished she’d stop smiling. It was infinitely more difficult hanging on to his annoyance with her smiling at him like that. “What are you doing?”

  She pretended to consider the question. “Well, let’s see. Coveralls, paint, roller—I’ll take a wild stab at it and say I’m painting.”

  “I know you’re painting.” He bit the words off. “Why are you painting?”

  “Because I’m good at it,” she answered glibly, her eyes twinkling as she added in a hushed, amused tone, “And—and you’ll like this part,” she assured him, placing a hand on his wrist to keep him in place, a move that was far too familiar for his liking. “Because I can save money doing it myself.”

  His frown only deepened, as did his annoyance. And yet part of him admired her enthusiasm. Not that he’d ever admit that, of course. “Don’t you have other things to do?”

  “Lots,” she said. “And this was supposed to be going faster, but my brother dropped out on me.” She looked at him and obviously decided that he needed more information. “Jorge was supposed to come by to help but he was distracted at the last minute.”

  He swore that every third sentence out of her mouth was an enigma. He needed a codebook to understand what she was saying. “Distracted?”

  Her tone was resigned, forgiving. “I’m afraid that my brother’s libido is larger than his sense of responsibility when it come to promises he makes to his little sister.” Gloria moved her shoulders in a careless shrug beneath the coarse coveralls. “Maybe it’s for the best. He can be rather sloppy.” And then her eyes lit up again and she looked at him as though suddenly seeing him for the first time. He felt as if he was watching the birth of an idea. “You, on the other hand, would probably do an excellent job.”

  He caught on before the sentence was out of her mouth. “If you’re trying to go all Tom Sawyer on me, I’m afraid it’s not going to work.” There were a hundred things he would do before agreeing to pick up a paintbrush or a roller.

  Undaunted, she pressed on. He had a feeling that other than tight spaces, very little daunted this woman.

  “As I recall, Tom Sawyer pretended he was having so much fun that the other boys begged him to let them try their hand at it and even offered to trade things for the privilege of whitewashing his aunt Polly’s fence.” She opened her eyes wide, the very picture of innocence. A picture he wasn’t buying. “I wouldn’t presume to try to suck you into doing something with a lie.”

  She was a clever woman. Was she being transparent on purpose? “No, you’d use flattery.”

  The innocent expression remained intact. “No way. Just observation. You’re a type A personality. You believe in being hands-on and you need to oversee everything yourself. People like that are too intense not to be good. Am I right?”

  He watched in fascination as the smile on her lips blossomed and subsequently moved into her eyes. He supposed it wasn’t only Irish eyes, as the old song went, that smiled, but dark, mesmerizing Mexican ones, as well.

  He found he had to force words to his lips. “I’ve never painted anything in my life.”

  She nodded, as though expecting him to say as much. He felt as if he was involved in some kind of cosmic chess game.

  “It’s not hard, really. You just put paint on the roller.” She picked one up to demonstrate, moving the roller up and down in the paint tray. “These rollers don’t allow you to drip and they absorb just the right amount to cover a given space.” She raised her eyes to his face. “You almost can’t fail.”

  The look in her eyes dared him.

  He found part of himself actually entertaining the idea and wondered if the paint fumes were getting to him. In the background he heard Blondie singing “‘I’m gonna getcha, getcha, getcha…’”

  “I’ll get my suit dirty,” Jack continued.

  She spread her hands to her sides. “Not a problem. I’ve an extra set of coveralls.” She nodded over to the side.

  He didn’t bother looking to verify. For the moment, she had captivated his attention. He told himself he could walk away anytime he chose. So, for the time being, he chose to remain.

  “You come prepared.”

  “They were for Jorge.” Her eyes slid slowly from his head to his toes. Her smile widened as a tinge of triumph highlighted it. “I’d say that you were about his height, give or take an inch.”

  “How convenient.” Maybe this woman could have shown old Tom Sawyer a trick or two, he thought, amused despite himself.

  Her smile warmed him as it washed over him. “Yes, isn’t it? They’re in the back room if you feel like trying them on.”

  He didn’t move an inch. “And why would I want to do that?”

  Her answer came without hesitation. The space between them, he noted, seemed to have been whittled down to nothing without either of them taking another step.

  “So that you can conquer something else,” she told him.

  He wasn’t altogether sure if she was talking about painting or if “something else” referred to a whole different subject entirely. All he knew was that the chemistry that seemed to act up every time he got within ten feet of her was present as always.

  She stood waiting for his answer. Her expression indicated that she was rather certain of the outcome. He knew he should just turn on his heel and walk out. That would have been the smart thing to do. After all, he didn’t like the smell of paint and he was far too busy a man to waste his time dipping a roller into a tray of periwinkle-blue liquid.

  Finally, with a shrug, he turned away from her. Bu
t instead of heading for the papered doors, he walked in the opposite direction, toward the back.

  So he’d try something new, he told himself.

  He supposed Gloria was to be commended for trying to cut corners and save money. That made her a decent businesswoman. It was in keeping with what he’d already found out about her.

  And he’d lied to her. He had painted before. He’d helped one of his roommates paint their dorm room while he was in college. They’d painted one wall stark black, the other three walls a virgin white. It had been very dramatic at the time. Now he had a feeling it would have driven him crazy.

  He found the coveralls hanging on the inside of the back room door. Shedding his jacket and tie, he pulled the garment over his slacks and shirt.

  “You’re right.” He snapped shut the row of snaps that ran along his chest. The coveralls felt a little tight, but not as bad as they could have. He could still move his arm. “Your brother and I are just about the same size…”

  His voice trailed off as he came out of the back room and saw her balancing herself on the next-to-the-topmost rung on the ladder. Was she crazy? “What the hell are you doing up there?”

  She turned around slowly to look down at him from the top of the ladder. Humor curved the corners of her mouth. “Am I going to have to explain this all over to you again? I’m painting.”

  “No, you’re not,” he corrected, really angry. “You’re risking breaking your neck.”

  He wasn’t just a type A personality, she thought, he was a worrier. She bristled against his implication that she was too clumsy to be careful.

  “I’m standing on a ladder—A does not exactly equal B here.”

  He wasn’t going to debate this with her. “Get down,” he ordered.

  Humor vanished. Her eyes narrowed into slits. He should have picked up on the warning, but he could almost see her flying off the ladder. “You’re not in charge of me, Fortune.”

  He had a different opinion. “I am when you don’t make an effort to use your brains and right now, they appear to be taking a break.”