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“They were lovers,” he said grimly.
“Isobel and your grandfather were—No.”
Cooper nodded. “Paramours. Hanky-panky partners. Cohorts in the horizontal waltz. My grandfather had a sweet tooth, and Isobel was the little cookie he chose to satisfy it. How many ways do I have to say it?”
“Cookie? Are you sure you haven’t got Isobel mixed up with someone like—oh, Kitty Stephens, say? Isobel was the farthest thing from a cookie that I can imagine.”
“You’re thinking of Isobel at eighty, and I admit it’s a little difficult to picture her inspiring a great passion.” He paused, and added thoughtfully, “Except perhaps for inciting someone to murder her. She could do that without even trying.”
“You didn’t, did you?” Hannah sounded suspicious. “Murder her, I mean.”
“You surely don’t expect me to dignify that with an answer.”
“I guess not,” she mused. “I probably wouldn’t believe you anyway.”
“Thanks,” Cooper said dryly. “At any rate, to get back to the story…Try to imagine Isobel at—your age, say. What are you? Twenty-seven?”
“Isobel was never my age.”
“When she was young, that tongue of hers probably seemed witty instead of sarcastic and callous. She’d have been exotic, slightly shocking—and never boring.”
Hannah shook her head, but Cooper thought it was more in resignation than denial.
“And I’ve seen pictures of her then,” he said softly. “If you can look past the crazy fashions and the strange hairstyles, she was really quite beautiful. Enormous eyes, widow’s peak, interesting cheekbones…rather like yours, as a matter of fact.”
Cooper didn’t realize he’d reached out till his fingertips brushed the hollow of Hannah’s cheek. He heard her catch her breath and told himself to stop. But his hand didn’t seem to get the message. His fingers slid slowly, barely touching the flesh, along her jawline and down her throat. “The long neck, the white throat, what they used to call a bee-stung mouth…” The pad of his thumb tingled as he brushed it ever so softly across her lower lip. “I can understand why my grandfather lost his head.”
The hell of it was, he really could understand. If Isobel had been half as appealing in her prime as Hannah was…
He watched the rise and fall of Hannah’s breasts under the trimly tailored green jacket as she tried to control her breathing, and he knew that his own was just as ragged. What in damnation had he been thinking? This woman wasn’t some cookie. She was dangerous—even more so, in her own way, than Isobel had been.
He picked up his glass and tossed down the rest of his wine. He could smell the musty scent of her perfume on his hand, as if simply touching her had marked him. “Anyway, that’s how Isobel got the box. Along with a whole lot of other things—the condo, the pension fund…”
“How do you know Isobel demanded all those things? Maybe your grandfather was so besotted with her that he’s the one who insisted on setting her up for life.”
“Maybe you’re right—about the condo, at least,” Cooper said deliberately. “From his point of view, it would have been pretty clever to put the love nest right downstairs from his own place, so he didn’t even have to put on an overcoat to go visit his charmer.”
Hannah frowned. “He lived at Barron’s Court, too?”
“In the penthouse I inherited from him. Now that I think about it, perhaps Isobel was the inspiration for his whole scheme to turn the old Barron’s Hotel into condos in the first place. Before that, my grandparents lived in one of the big old mansions south of Grand Avenue—and he could hardly have installed Isobel in the guest room without Gran noticing. But we’re drifting from the point.”
“The Lovers’ Box.” Hannah touched it with a fingertip.
“I want the box so I can put it back where it belongs, Hannah—in my mother’s hands. I’m willing to pay good money for it, just as I was willing to pay Isobel.”
“Oh, really?” Skepticism dripped from Hannah’s voice. “Then—if Isobel was so mercenary—why didn’t she sell it to you?”
He’d thought until then that he was making progress. She’d been softening, he was sure of it, until he’d gotten careless and made a misstep. What was wrong with him, to make him forget that she was a demon of a negotiator?
“Because it wasn’t a matter of money to her, by then,” he said irritably. He knew even as he said it that he was handing Hannah a weapon. But he couldn’t seem to stop himself; once he’d opened the wound his pain seemed to overflow.
“She liked the feeling of power she got from keeping me dangling,” he went on bitterly. “She liked knowing that even though my grandfather had been dead for years, she could still remind his family that she hadn’t gone away. She liked being a thorn in the flesh—cashing her pension check every month, still living just one floor down from the family home, running into me in the elevator from time to time and politely asking how I was doing, as if she were an old friend of the family. And she liked keeping that box where she could look at it now and then and smile.”
And what about you, Hannah? he asked himself. Are you going to be just like her? Are you going to use all that against me?
“I’m sorry,” Hannah said. “I imagine Isobel was always like that. But whatever she did really has nothing to do with me.” She toyed with her wineglass and said casually, “So how much did you offer her for the box?”
He stared at her for a long moment. Well, he thought, he had his answer. She was going to hold him up for everything she could get. “Surely you don’t think I’m going to tell you.”
“You mean you won’t pay me as much as you’d have given her?” She shook her head sadly.
“I’m sure as hell not going to make you a free gift of the information.” His voice was hard-edged. “At least you’ll have to do that much on your own. Isobel did everything else for you. Not only did she give you the box, but she handed you complete instructions on how to bargain with it. She made sure, from the way she wrote her will, that you’d know it was worth more than anything else she could leave you. And by dangling my name, she told you precisely how to cash in on it.” Cooper snapped a bread stick in half. “So I suppose the only question remaining now is how much you’re like her.”
“What?”
“It’s quite apparent you’ve inherited Isobel’s sadistic nature,” he said deliberately. “The unknown is whether you’ve developed it into a fine art, as she did. How much am I going to have to pay to get back what’s mine?”
Hannah stared at him. Cooper put the bread stick between his lips like a cigar and waited to see if the strategy would work. Whatever figure she named, of course, he had no intention of paying it. But once she’d set a price, no matter how outrageous, he could force her into a final compromise. Asking leading questions hadn’t succeeded in getting her to name an amount; would goading her to fury work any better?
“Nothing.”
Her voice was so quiet that he almost thought he’d heard wrong. “What did you say?”
“I mean no amount of money would be enough,” she said. “You’re not getting the box—no matter what.” She fumbled in her bag and tossed a handful of cash onto the table. “That should cover my half of the bill.” She stood, picked up the Lovers’ Box, and stepped away from the table. Then she turned toward him again. “One more thing, Mr. Winston. Since I’ve just paid for a glass of wine that I never intended to drink, I might as well get some good out of it.”
She picked up her still-full glass and with one smooth and efficient turn of her wrist threw the contents at him.
He saw it coming as if in slow motion, first a few droplets and then a tidal wave of red wine, and he closed his eyes against the onslaught. But she hadn’t aimed at his face; the liquid sloshed across the breadth of his chest instead, soaking his favorite tie, the front of his once-white shirt, the lapels of his charcoal suit.
“Excuse me,” Hannah said to the waiter, who had rushed forward, his tray of hors d’oeuvres still balanced, to fumble with a napkin. “I do hope I didn’t get any on the carpet.”
Then she walked away, head high, spine straight, with the Lover’s Box held firmly in both hands, leaving only silence in her wake.
The breeze had picked up, whipping through the canyons of downtown. But Hannah was steaming, too agitated to sit still, so instead of hailing a cab she walked all the way back downtown to Stephens & Webster.
Cooper Winston had deserved every last drop, she told herself. The moment when it was apparent he’d seen the deluge coming and knew he couldn’t do a thing to prevent it would be part of Hannah’s scrapbook of precious memories for the rest of her life. It was just too bad it had been only a glass of wine, and a small one at that; if he’d ordered the bottle, she’d have smashed it over his head.
Of course, she admitted, there was the little matter of effectively squashing any faint possibility that he might consider taking his legal business to Stephens & Webster. And if he were to complain about her conduct to Ken Stephens…
“He still deserved it,” Hannah muttered unrepentantly.
Besides, when she thought about it, she decided that he was unlikely to say anything to anybody about the incident. He’d look like a fool if he told that story—and if there was one thing she was certain of about Cooper, it was that he didn’t like looking silly. Experienced businessman that he was, he would never admit that he’d been outmaneuvered in a straightforward business proposition by a young woman whose law school diploma was practically still warm from the press, much less that Hannah’s final counteroffer had been a glass of wine.
No, his revenge would be of a different sort. And she was fairly sure there would be consequences of her actions—even though the whole thing had been his fault in the first place. If he hadn’t leaped to unwarranted assumptions about her, Hannah wouldn’t have lost her temper at all.
So what if Isobel hadn’t been any plaster saint? That wasn’t exactly a news flash, though Hannah still had a little trouble picturing her elderly cousin as a courtesan extraordinaire. Fluffy, agreeable, and charming weren’t words that sprang to mind where Isobel was concerned.
But then, what made Hannah assume that she knew the criteria for being a good mistress? Maybe fluffy, agreeable, and charming were precisely what men like Cooper’s grandfather weren’t looking for.
Still, whatever Isobel’s history, it didn’t mean that the inclination for extortion and blackmail ran through the rest of the family, as Cooper so clearly believed.
He’d been remembering his fifteen million dollars, of course. But though Hannah admitted that her timing could have been a lot more convenient, there had been nothing shady about her actions in the restaurant chain deal. She’d simply discovered, at the very last minute, a loophole that everyone else had overlooked altogether.
What really annoyed her about the Lovers’ Box was the fact that right up till the last minute she’d actually been feeling sympathetic. She’d been almost ready to wipe away a tear as she handed his treasure back to him. The last foolish question she’d asked had been prompted more by curiosity than anything else; she’d been not only wondering exactly how much the box was worth to him, but she’d been toying with the idea of how grateful he’d be when she told him he didn’t have to pay her anything at all…
Not far from the law office, on a sudden whim, she stopped to take a closer look at Cooper’s treasure.
In strong sunlight, the Lovers’ Box looked even less likely as an object of obsession. It was pretty enough, but on close inspection she could see a basic crudity about the carving and a certain lack of grace in the proportions of the box. One thing was certain; Cooper had been right when he said that no one else would pay as much for it as he was willing to do.
You probably should have grabbed the five hundred bucks and run, Hannah thought wryly. But no, she’d had to probe for the whole story. What on earth had she been thinking of?
And what was she going to do now?
Perhaps more important, what would Cooper do? He was momentarily stymied, but Hannah didn’t expect that state of affairs to last long. In fact, she wouldn’t be surprised if he’d thought out another plan by the time he’d changed his shirt.
But what would he try next? Persuasion? Threats? Outright burglary?
She’d have to deal with those things when and if they came up. In the meantime, she decided, there were a few basic measures she could take in the name of self-protection.
As soon as she’d stashed the Lovers’ Box in a hiding place that she hoped was safely out of Cooper’s reach, she dusted one problem from her hands. But there was still Brenton Bannister to consider. Brenton, and his promise of a very special evening. One, he had seemed to imply, which would change the rest of Hannah’s life.
The uneasy flutter she’d felt in the pit of her stomach when he’d issued the invitation came back again, even more strongly.
Hannah was in the law library, still poring over Jacob Jones’s files, when Brenton came in. “What’s keeping you?” he said. “I’ve been waiting.”
Hannah stopped fitting together the bits of an invoice which had crumbled with age. “You said you had clients all afternoon. I told your secretary I’d be here if you needed me.”
“Very discreet of you to put it that way.” He chuckled. “I always knew you had sense, Hannah. She said you were very bright-eyed when you came in, and that you looked as if you’d had quite a surprise.”
“I suppose you could put it that way.” Hannah fitted the last piece of the invoice into place, glanced at it, concluded that the information it contained carried no importance to the legal matter at hand, and put it in the finished stack.
“So tell me the good news. How did you and Ken Stephens get along? And when will Isobel’s estate all be wrapped up?”
“Oh, it’s pretty well finished already,” Hannah said dryly. “All but the dust settling.”
“I was right, wasn’t I?” Brenton pushed aside a stack of papers and sat down on the corner of the table. “She left you everything she owned.”
“Just about.”
“What did I tell you?” Satisfaction almost dripped from his voice. “You can give me all the details over a nice long dinner.”
Hannah brushed off her hands and stood up. As she fitted the lid back on the box, she said casually, “You were absolutely right, Brenton. The only trouble with your scenario is that Isobel cut it right down to the wire and died without a penny to her name. So I was right, too—because in fact she didn’t leave me anything at all.”
She’d taken two steps toward the door before she realized that Brenton hadn’t moved, except for his mouth dropping open.
That was pretty much the identical reaction she’d had, of course. Not inheriting hadn’t surprised her—but the fact that there was nothing to inherit had been a stunner.
“Nothing?” Brenton’s voice was almost a croak. “But…but she was a wealthy woman!”
“She appeared to be a wealthy woman,” Hannah corrected. “In fact, she was something of an expert at appearing to be well-off.” She succinctly repeated Ken Stephens’s rundown regarding Isobel’s condo, furniture, jewelry, china, silver, and furs.
She was just starting to tell Brenton about the odd little Lovers’ Box when she realized that would lead almost inevitably to telling him about the scene at Cicero’s.
Brenton seemed too shocked to notice that her story had abruptly broken off. “Nothing,” he repeated. “She left you nothing at all?”
Hannah’s eyes narrowed. “Exactly why is that so important?”
“Oh, I just…” His voice was little more than a whisper. “I was so certain. At least, she always seemed to indicate that you’d get everything she owned.”
“I did. She just didn’t own much of anything.”
“But it was like she told me that you would—” He broke off.
Hannah braced her hands on the table. “You seriously thought I was going to be rich, didn’t you?”
He didn’t answer, but his gaze shifted uneasily away.
And you were planning to end up with a good share of my supposed wealth, weren’t you? Now she understood. That was why Brenton had invited her out tonight, after months of casual friendliness. That was why he’d trotted out the line about getting to know her, and that was why he’d left it dangling instead of going on to tell her how special she was, and how important she’d become to him. He’d left it to Hannah to fill in the blank, and she’d done exactly as he’d expected she would.
Now she could see precisely how careful he’d been to say nothing that could be taken as a commitment. Nothing that he couldn’t escape. Even that invitation to dinner had been very carefully phrased….
Hannah kept her voice level. “Are we still going out tonight, Brenton?”
She didn’t quite know what she’d do if he said yes, for she’d rather share a meal with a rattlesnake. But she suspected that Brenton was so eager to escape that he wouldn’t stop to consider the possibility she was bluffing.
“Actually…” His voice almost rasped. “You don’t feel like celebrating, I’m sure, under the circumstances. So maybe it would be better if we didn’t.”
How thoughtful it was of him, Hannah mused, to put her feelings first! “Then how about taking me out for a nice dinner to commiserate?” she asked gently.
He swallowed hard. He looked, she thought, like a hunted rabbit. “The Jones case,” he said. “I really do need to burn the midnight oil on it, so—”
“And of course it would be foolish to spend money on me at the Flamingo Room if there’s no chance of getting it back.”
She could see the truth written in his face.
Too annoyed to think it through, Hannah said, “If I’d told you Isobel had left me a million or two, would you have proposed to me tonight, Brenton? Or would you have waited till you could check out the facts with Ken Stephens, just to be certain I was telling the truth?”
She stopped there, but only by biting her tongue hard. No matter how much he deserved it, she couldn’t tell him to jump off a cliff; he was still her boss.
And it was suddenly and perfectly clear to Hannah that not only was Brenton Bannister a jerk, but he was the kind of animal who became most dangerous when cornered. Almost accidentally, she’d done precisely that, by forcing him to admit—if only by a look—what he had plotted.
She’d been concerned about what kind of revenge Cooper might take on her—but she was terrified of what Brenton might do.
She was an embarrassment to him now, that was clear. Perhaps he even saw her as a threat, able to damage his career by telling this story. And in Brenton Bannister’s narrow view of the world, whether she was an embarrassment or an active danger, the answer was obviously the same: Hannah would have to go.
He would stay within the rules, for he was too clever to break them and give her cause to charge him with sexual harassment or discrimination. But one way or another, he’d get rid of her—and soon.
Unless she did something to prevent it.
But what could she possibly do?
She forced herself to smile at him. “You’re right,” she said. “It’s just as well we’re not going out. We’ve both got work to do to have the Jones case ready for trial. In fact, I’m going to take a box of papers home with me now. But first, I want to thank you, Brenton. It has been a very special evening.”
And, she thought wryly, it had certainly turned out to be one which would change the rest of her life.
CHAPTER THREE
BY THE time Hannah got halfway back to Barron’s Court, she was regretting the impulse which had made her seize a carton of Jacob Jones’s papers. She’d done it only as a sort of bluff—so that Brenton wouldn’t be able to accuse her of walking out on undone tasks—rather than because she had any real intention of working tonight; with her mind going in circles, she’d be too afraid of missing something important.
But as she walked the few blocks from the law firm to Barron’s Court, the box had grown as heavy as the weight that seemed to have descended on her shoulders. She propped the carton on a corner of a small table in the lobby, glad of a moment’s relief, while she waited for the elevator.
How much different things looked than they had early in the morning, she thought, when she and Brutus had stood right here, fresh from a walk and feeling great. In one day, she’d near-as-nothing lost both her home and her job….
And Cooper Winston would no doubt add, with a note of glee in his voice, that she’d lost her expectations, as well. He probably thought the only reason she’d come to visit Isobel in the first place had been to look over her circumstances and decide if the old woman was worthwhile prey!
Impatiently, Hannah pushed the button again. The way her luck was running, the elevator had probably broken down. At least, the lighted dial above the polished Art Deco doors said that the darned thing hadn’t moved off seven since she’d come in.
All she wanted to do was get upstairs, fix herself a cup of tea, climb into her bed, and pull the comforter over her head while she waited for a new day to dawn. Whatever happened tomorrow, she told herself, it couldn’t possibly be as bad as today had been.
She was bracing herself for the climb up the long flights of stairs—and wishing even more that she’d left the carton of papers in the law library—when the elevator finally began to move. “And there’s absolutely no doubt,” she muttered, “the way my day has been going, who is going to get off when it gets to the lobby.” It was like the man had radar, knowing precisely when and where he was least wanted.
She stepped to the side as the door opened. To her surprise, however, instead of Cooper, the occupant was a jeans-clad workman who was straining to carry a thick slab of dark-stained wood which was nearly as broad as his outstretched arms. He nodded to Hannah as he maneuvered the slab out into the lobby, then stopped just a few steps away to readjust the padding which had started to slip away from the wood.
She said, “It would be easier to move something that size on the service elevator. You do know Barron’s Court has a service elevator? It allows this one to be left free for the residents to use.”
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