Harlequin Desire September 2015 - Box Set 1 of 2: Claimed\Maid for a Magnate\Only on His Terms (35 page)

Unable to help himself, he spoke his thoughts out loud. “So. Major daddy issues. Am I right?”

“Harrison!” his mother exclaimed.

Whether her reaction was due to anger at his invasive question or worry that it would make Grace change her mind about giving her back her homes, he couldn't have said. Still, he supposed maybe, possibly, perhaps, he had overstepped there.

“Sorry,” he apologized. Almost genuinely, too. “That was out of line.”

“Yeah, it was,” Grace agreed.

Surprisingly, though, she didn't seem to take offense. Certainly not as much as Harrison would have, had he been asked the same question.

“No, Mr. Sage, I do not have daddy issues,” she continued evenly. “I come from a long line of smart, independent women who didn't need the help of anyone—least of all a man—to get by.”

He was surprised by the splinter of admiration that tried to wedge itself under his skin at her cool reply.

Until she added, “But you should probably talk to someone about your own issues.”

He grinned at that. “What issues?”

“The one you have about strong, independent women.”

“I don't have issues with women,” he told her. “I have issues with
a
woman. A woman who took advantage of my father.”

He could tell by her expression that there was more she wanted to say on that matter. Instead, she said, “If you'll both excuse me, I thought I'd take the train into New York today to do some sightseeing, since I may never have the chance again.”

Harrison bit back a comment about the private jet and the yacht she owned, thanks to his father, and how she could go anywhere in the world she wanted, whenever she felt like it. Instead, he sipped his coffee in silence and tried not to notice the wisp of dark gold hair that was curling against her nape in a way that made him unwillingly envious. If she were any other woman, he would have reached over and coiled that strand of silk around his finger, then used it to gently pull her face toward his so he could—

So he could nothing, he told himself. Grace Sumner was the last woman he wanted to touch with affection. Or anything else. Even a ten-foot pole.

“That's a lovely idea,” his mother said. “You should do some shopping, too. A young girl like you—” She smiled in a way that was kind of astonishing in light of the fact that she'd just encouraged a stranger to go out and spend money that should belong to her. “A young
rich
girl like you,” she amended, “should have a closet full of beautiful things to wear. Beautiful
new
things.”

The emphasis on the word
new
obviously didn't escape Grace's notice. She glanced down at her outfit, one that looked like something from a sixties flick titled
Beach Blanket Barbie
. Strangely, she didn't seem to think there was anything wrong with it. For a moment, she looked as if she wanted to explain her wardrobe choices, and then seemed to change her mind. Good call, Harrison thought. His mother never kept clothes past the season and year for which they'd been designed.

“Timmerman can drive you to the train,” Vivian told her. “Just remember to be back by eight, because Eleanor is making something special for dinner tonight. In your honor.”

Somehow, Harrison kept from rolling his eyes. His mother was becoming such a suck-up.

After Grace left, he finished his coffee, downed what was left of the bacon and toast and listened for the car to pull away from the house. Then he headed for his Maserati and made his way to the train station, too.

So Grace wanted to see the sights of New York City. Right. All along Fifth Avenue, he'd bet. Starting with Saks and ending with Tiffany, allowing just enough time for a late lunch at Le Bernardin. Luckily, he'd given himself the rest of the week off—he could do that, being the owner of his own company—to deal with The Sumner Problem, so he had no obligations today.

None except exposing a con artist who was so good at what she did, she could make a man long for things he knew he would never have.

* * *

It was some hours later that Harrison discovered how right he'd been in his suspicions—Grace Sumner did go shopping and treat herself to a late lunch. But only after seeing sights like the Empire State Building, Rockefeller Center and Times Square. And even though that last left her within walking distance of Fifth Avenue, she took the subway to go hopscotching all over Brooklyn. Specifically, through the thrift stores of Brooklyn. And instead of Le Bernardin, she bought her lunch from a Salvadoran food truck.

Grace Sumner was either a con artist of even greater sophistication than he'd thought, or she knew he was following her. And since he was confident he hadn't revealed himself, he was going for the former. Unless, of course, her intentions toward his father's money were exactly what she claimed, and she would be giving it all away, meaning she was on a major budget that prohibited things like Fifth Avenue shopping sprees.

Yeah, right. And maybe tonight, while he was sleeping, the Blue Fairy would fly into his room and turn him into a real boy.

What the hell kind of game was she playing? And how long was she going to play it? Even if—no, when—his detective discovered the truth about her, and an appeals court finally found in the Sages' favor, for now, his father's money legally belonged to her. It could be weeks, even months, before Harrison had the evidence he needed to win the return of his father's fortune. It would take even longer for another appeal in court. In the meantime, she was within her rights to spend every dime.

So why wasn't she doing that? And why was she staying with his mother on Long Island, away from Bennett Tarrant and his colleagues, who were the only support she had? There was more going on here than a simple con. There had to be. Harrison just needed to figure out what it was. And he would have to do it within a week, since Grace would be leaving after the paperwork was complete to return the estate and the penthouse to his mother. Just who was Grace Sumner—wicked woman or good girl?

And the toughest question to answer of all—why was Harrison kind of hoping it was the latter?

Four

U
ntil she saw it in action, Gracie never would have guessed how closely the New York Stock Exchange after the ringing of the bell resembled the kitchen of Café Destiné after the eighty-sixing of the béchamel sauce. Absolute mayhem. And she wasn't even
on
the floor. She was with Harrison in the gallery above it, looking down as millions of dollars' worth of commodities, futures and options—and, for all she knew, lunches, Pokémon cards and Neopets—were traded, bought and sold in a way she would never, ever understand. Not that Harrison hadn't tried to explain it to her. He'd used every minute of their drive from Long Island doing just that—probably because it kept him from having to talk to her about anything else.

It had been Vivian's idea that he should bring Gracie into the city again today, but for a different kind of sightseeing. Last night, over dinner, when Gracie and Harrison had been gazing suspiciously at each other across the table and responding to Vivian's attempts at repartee with little more than awkward mumbling, his mother had suggested the two of them should spend more time together so that each could get to know the other's version of the man they shared in common.

Gracie figured it was more likely, though, that Vivian was worried about the antagonism that could potentially mushroom between Gracie and Harrison, and how Vivian would then be left homeless.

So Gracie and Harrison had risen extra early to make it to Wall Street in time to hear the Friday opening bell. Early enough that Gracie only had time to consume a single cup of coffee. That had given her just enough presence of mind to at least pretend she understood all the stuff Harrison said about SEC, PLC and OTC—and the stuff about yearlings and bulls and bears, oh my—but it hadn't constituted much in the way of breakfast. Now her UGI was growling like a bear, her mood was fast depreciating and her brain was beginning to liquidate.

Hmm. Maybe she'd understood more of what he'd said than she thought. Despite the downturn of her current market...ah, she meant, body...she tried to focus on what he was saying now.

“My father had a real gift for trading,” he told her.

Harrison fit in this world nicely with his dark slate suit and dove-gray dress shirt, but his necktie, with its multicolored dots, was a tad less conservative than the staid diagonal stripes and discreet tiny diamonds on the ties worn by the other men. Although Gracie had tried to dress for business, too, the best she'd been able to do was another vintage suit—the second of the only two she owned. This one was a dark ruby with pencil skirt and cinch-waisted jacket with a slight peplum. She'd thought she looked pretty great when she got dressed. Seeing the other women in their dark grays and blacks and neutrals, she now felt like a giant lollipop.

“His initial fortune,” Harrison continued, “the one he used to buy and build his companies, was all earned in the stock market. He never went to college. Did you know that?”

There was something akin to pride in his voice when he spoke of Harry's lack of formal education. It surprised Gracie. She would have thought Harrison was the kind of man who wouldn't want anyone to know about his father's lack of education because it would be an embarrassment to the family name.

“I did know that, actually,” she said. “But he told me it was because he couldn't afford to pay for college.”

“He couldn't. Not after he graduated from high school, anyway.”

“Harry never graduated from high school.”

The moment the words were out of her mouth, Gracie regretted them. Not because she worried they would be an embarrassment to the Sage name, too, but because Harrison's expression made clear he hadn't known that. And now he was finding it out from someone he'd just met who had obviously known it for some time.

Nevertheless, he said, “Of course my father graduated from high school. Findlay High School in Cincinnati. Class of fifty-three.”

“Harry never even made it to his junior year,” Gracie told him. “He dropped out when he was fifteen to work in the Formica factory. He lied about his age to get the job and join the union.”

Harrison gazed at her blankly. “Why would he do that?”

Oh, boy. There was obviously
a lot
he didn't know about his father's early life. And Gracie didn't want to be the one to let the cat out of the bag, which, in Harry's case, would be more like freeing a Siberian tiger from the Moscow Zoo.

Gently, she said, “Because by then, Harry's father was drinking so much, he couldn't hold down a job, and his mother was caring for his little brother, so she couldn't work, either. Harry had to be the one to support the family.”

At the word
brother
, Harrison's eyes went wide, and Gracie's heart dropped to her stomach. Surely, he'd at least known his father had a brother.

“My father had a
brother
?”

Okay, maybe not. “Yeah. You didn't know?”

Although Harrison's gaze was fixed on hers, she could tell by the emptiness in those blue, blue eyes that his thoughts were a billion miles away. Or, at least, a few decades away. Or maybe he was just trying to decide whether or not to even believe her. But Gracie had seen photos of Harry's family. The old pictures were with his things in the storage unit.

Harrison shook his head lightly, honing his icy blue gaze—which somehow, suddenly, seemed a little less icy—on Gracie again. “But I always thought... I mean he told me... Well, okay he never really
told
me, but I always assumed...” When he realized he wasn't making sense, he inhaled a breath and released it. “I always thought he was an only child. By the time I was born, his parents were both dead, and he never mentioned any other family. Hell, he barely mentioned his parents.”

Gracie tried to tread lightly as she told him, “Benjy—that was his little brother—had polio. He died when he was thirteen, and Harry was sixteen. It hit him pretty hard. His mother, too. She left home a year or so later, and Harry never saw her again. He took care of his dad for a couple more years, until he died, too, of cirrhosis. Then Harry left Cincinnati and didn't come back until after he retired from his job as a TV repairman.

“Well, that was what he told me, anyway,” she quickly amended. “That he made his living in New York as a TV repairman. Obviously, that part wasn't true. But the rest of it was. When I packed up his things after his death, I found photos and some old diaries that belonged to his mother. I'll be sure everything is sent to you and Vivian once I get back to Seattle.”

Harrison eyed her thoughtfully. A little too thoughtfully for Gracie's comfort. He was doing that thing again where he seemed to be trying to peer into her soul. And was succeeding. All he said, though, was “What else did my father tell you about his childhood?”

“He said that after his father died, he took what little money he'd saved and went to New York. TV was just starting to become popular, and he got a job in a little appliance shop and taught himself everything he could. After a while, he opened his own repair business in Queens and lived and worked there until he retired.”

“He never mentioned getting married?” Harrison asked. “Three times, at that? Never mentioned having kids? Seven of us?”

She shook her head. “Never. I mean, I always wondered. He never said he
didn't
marry or have a family. But I didn't want to pry. He just told me that after he retired, he started missing Cincinnati, so he moved back to his old neighborhood.”

Harrison said nothing in response to that, but he continued to look at Gracie in that way that made something hot and gooey eddy in her belly, melting bit by bit until it warmed her all over. How could he make her feel like that? He'd made no secret of the fact that he didn't trust her. He didn't even like her. Except for their initial meeting, the time the two of them had shared together had been combative at worst and uncomfortable at best. There should be no hot gooeyness in a situation like that.

But maybe that was the problem. Not the unpleasant times since the two of them met. But the handful of moments when the two of them had first encountered each other in the library. Something had definitely blossomed between them in those moments, and it had been anything but unpleasant. Those moments had been some of the sweetest Gracie had ever known. She'd never had a reaction to a man like she'd had to Harrison. Why couldn't the two of them hit Rewind and start over? Go back to that first second when her eyes met his, and she felt as if the pieces of her life that had been ripped apart in the days since meeting Mr. Tarrant had suddenly fallen back into place?

When Harrison still didn't respond to anything she'd told him, she asked softly, “You didn't know any of that stuff about his parents or brother, did you?”

He shook his head.

“What did your father tell you about his childhood?”

“Not much. That he grew up in Cincinnati. That his mother was a teacher and his father worked in a factory. That he used money he saved from a paper route to come to New York after high school.”

His expression suddenly changed, moving from quietly preoccupied to fiercely keen. “After his arrival in New York, though, I heard all about that. Over and over again.”

“Guess it didn't have anything to do with a TV repair shop, huh?”

He chuckled, but there was nothing happy in the sound. “No. It was all about how he found work as a runner for a brokerage in Manhattan and worked his way up, investing what he could where he could whenever he had a spare nickel. How he made his first million when he was twenty-five. How he bought his first business at twenty-seven. How, at thirty, he was worth tens of millions of dollars. At forty, hundreds of millions. Easy as pie. He had things fall into his lap and then was smart enough to exploit them for all they were worth. Hell, he berated me for not earning my keep when I was a kid. He may have gone into his office every day to keep an eye on things, but as far as actual work? He never worked a day in his life as an adult.”

Gracie couldn't help the sound of disbelief that escaped her. “Oh, please. I never met anyone who worked harder than Harry Sagalowsky.”

Harrison threw her another one of those dubious looks. “You said he was retired when you met him.”

“Yeah, but he was active in his church, he volunteered at the veterans hospital, he served meals at a homeless shelter most weekends and he coached Little League.”

She could tell Harrison stopped believing her with the first sentence—he even started shaking his head before she finished speaking. “My father never went to church, he was never in the military, he thought poverty was a scam and he hated kids.”

“Your father sang in the choir,” Gracie countered. “And he felt a debt to people in uniform because he grew up during a time when a lot of them never made it home from war. I'd think by now you'd realize how he feels about poverty, since he wants me to give away all his money to worthy causes. And I never saw him happier than he was when he was with his team. I bet you didn't even realize what a huge Reds fan he was, did you?”

Now Harrison was the one to utter an incredulous sound. “This just proves I can't trust anything you say. Nothing you've said about my father rings true. Nothing.”

“And nothing you've said about him rings true for me, either.”

She still couldn't understand how the Harry she'd known could have been a big-shot corporate mogul or abandoned a wife and son. There must have been a reason for it. He'd said in his video that his home life had become unhappy, but that should have made him determined to stay and fix whatever was wrong. Harry really was the finest man Gracie had ever met. So how could he have done things that weren't fine at all?

The tentative moment of...whatever it was she and Harrison had begun to share was gone. And really, did it matter how they felt about each other? Two judges had awarded Gracie Harry's fortune, and she was duty-bound to disburse it in a way that would honor his wishes. It didn't matter if Harrison Sage believed her. It didn't matter if he trusted her. It didn't matter if he liked her. And it didn't matter how he felt about his father, either, since it was too late for any attempts to make amends there. Harry's death had ensured that his son would never have a chance to understand the man beneath the high-powered pinstripes who had walked out on his family fifteen years before. There would be no resolution for that relationship. Ever.

Or would there?

Gracie studied Harrison again, remembering the way he'd been in the library, before their formal introductions. He had reminded her of Harry, she recalled. He had smiled like his father. He'd been as charming. As easy to talk to. He had the same blue eyes and, now that she paid more attention, the same straight nose and blunt jaw. Had circumstances been different, had Harry not been a titan of industry, had he spent more time with his family and given more freely of himself to them, things might have turned out differently for father and son. They might have recognized they had a lot in common. They might have even been friends.

“You didn't really know him, either, did you?” Gracie said softly.

Harrison deflated a little at the question. “The man I knew was nothing like you describe.”

“Maybe while he was your father, he wasn't,” she conceded. “And that's a shame.”

Now Harrison stiffened. “Why is that a shame? My father was one of the most successful men of his time. How can there be anything shameful in that?”

“Because he could have been a successful father, too,” Gracie said. “I wish you'd known the man I did. The Harry I knew was a good guy, Harrison.”

It was the first time she had called him by his first name, and it surprised her how easily it rolled off her tongue, and how good it felt to say it. Harrison seemed surprised, too. He opened his mouth to say something, then evidently changed his mind and glanced away. When he did, something—some odd trick of the light—shadowed his eyes, turning the anger to melancholy.