Return to Sender (3 page)

Five foot three, maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet, Lin scrutinized her image. The stylist had flat-ironed her long blond hair, assuring her that it was the current style, and, no, she was not too old to wear her hair down. Her face had a rosy glow courtesy of Lancôme and a facial. The manicurist had given her a French manicure, telling her that it, too, was “in vogue.” After leaving the spa, she’d returned to her room with a few make-up tricks under her belt, plus her hairstylist had sashayed back and forth, showing her the fashionable way to strut her stuff so that she’d be noticed when making an entrance. While that was the last thing on her mind, she’d had a blast with the women, more than she cared to admit. Lin had confessed that she hadn’t had time for such things as a girl, but she hadn’t explained why.

She glanced at her watch. Six fifteen. It was time for Cinderella to hail her carriage. “Get off it!” If she continued thinking along those lines, she would have to commit herself.

Lin visualized her mental checklist. Purse, lipstick, wallet, cell phone, and keycard. All of a sudden her hands began to shake, and her stomach twisted in knots. It wasn’t like she would be the only parent there. Unsure why she was so jittery, she shrugged her feelings aside, telling herself she simply wanted to make a good impression on Will’s professors and classmates. Plus, she wasn’t on her own turf, and that in and of itself had the power to turn her insides to mush.

Instead of exiting through the turnstile doors, Lin allowed the doorman to open the door for her. Discreetly, she placed a twenty in his hand and hoped it was enough. Sally had told her you had to tip everyone for everything in the city. Lin calculated she’d be broke in less than a year if she remained in New York.

“Thank you, ma’am,” the elderly man said as he escorted her to a waiting taxi.

Okay, that was worth the twenty bucks. She would’ve hated to chase down a taxi in the red heels.

The inside of the taxi was warm. Lin offered up a silent prayer of thanks that there were no strange odors permeating the closed-in space. She would hate to arrive at the banquet smelling like cigarettes and onions.

More blaring horns, shouts, and tires squealing could be heard. Lin enjoyed watching the throngs of people on the streets as the driver managed to weave through the traffic. Lord, she loved the hubbub, but she didn’t think she could tolerate it on a daily basis.

Poor Will. She smiled.
Not
poor Will. After the slow pace of Dalton, he would welcome this. It was one of the many reasons he’d chosen to attend NYU in the first place. He’d wanted a taste of the big city. Lin thought he was about to get his wish and then some.

Twenty minutes later the taxi stopped in front of the building where the banquet was being held. She offered up two twenties, telling the driver to keep the change.

“Do you want me to pick you up later?” the driver asked as he jumped out to open her door. Lin thought the tip must have been a tad too generous.

“Uh, I’m not sure. Do you have a card?” she asked.

He laughed. “No card, lady, but if you want a return ride, you gotta ask for it.”

“Of course. Midnight. Be here at midnight.” Now she was starting to
sound
like Cinderella.

“Will do.”

Her transportation taken care of, Lin stepped out into the cool night air.

N
icholas Pemberton Jr. took the elevator from the twenty-second floor to the main lobby of the Chrysler Building. He sailed across the onyx and amber marble floors toward the exit. He never once looked up at the ceiling, where Edward Trumbull had created a striking mural depicting scenes of the past from Chrysler’s assembly line. The skyscraper’s history held no appeal for him whatsoever.

Reeling through the turnstile doors, he stood on the sidewalk and sucked in gulps of exhaust fumes and the scent of burnt sausages.

He needed air.

Blaring horns from the hundreds of taxis blasted in the late afternoon; shouts, squealing brakes, and the sound of footsteps on the sidewalk thundered in his ears. Bits of conversations buzzed past him; cell phones rang. Nick even felt the vibration of the subway beneath him. Sounds were heightened. He took another deep breath and leaned against the brick wall for support.

After leaving his physician’s office, Nick continued to deny the information he’d just been given.

Clearly, it was not possible. He felt fine.

His mind veered to the appointment he’d had only minutes ago.

Since his last visit over a year ago, Dr. Warner had replaced his former receptionist with a hot-looking blonde, not a day over twenty. She wore a vibrant pink skirt that barely covered the cheeks of her ass and a sheer blouse that allowed him a view of her black bra. Her blond hair was piled on top of her head in a messy top-knot, secured with a pencil. He shook his head at what currently constituted office wear. What the hell was the world coming to? He followed her wiggling ass to a pair of solid cherry double doors, which led into the inner sanctum of the private office, where life-and-death decisions were made on a daily basis.

She tapped on the door, then opened it for Nick.

“Thanks,” he said.

She offered him a killer smile before returning to her desk.

He nodded in return.

At six-three, Nick was tall. Those who knew him thought him handsome, with his sleek black hair tinged with just the right amount of gray at the temples. Whiskey-colored eyes matched his deeply tanned skin. At forty-three, Nicholas Pemberton could have easily passed for a man in his late twenties.

When silver-haired Dr. Warner stood, he towered over his patient. Nick guessed the man to be at least six foot six. Clear blue eyes stared at him as if he were a specimen under a microscope. Nick had never felt totally comfortable around the man. Maybe it was time to switch doctors.

The doctor extended a large hand across the expanse of his desktop. “Nice to see you, Nick.”

Nick shook his hand. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

Dr. Warner smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You don’t waste time, do you?” He gestured to the chairs across from his desk. “Please, have a seat.”

Nicholas Pemberton sat down in what he knew to be an antique French Louis XVI gilt chair, which faced an enormous desk, custom-made to fit the man who sat behind it.

He tried an I-don’t-give-a-damn attitude to bolster his confidence. He took a deep breath, hoping it would calm his jitters. “Go on, just spit it out. You didn’t take me away from making millions to discuss my cholesterol.”

He’d had his yearly physical two weeks ago, after Chelsea, his wife, had reminded him he’d already rescheduled three times. And there he was, on pins and needles, waiting for some life-changing illness to screw things up, or at least that was what he believed. Hell, maybe he’d caught a sexually transmitted disease, and Dr. Warner was just being discreet. He’d been with a woman he’d met in Chicago a few weeks ago. She’d been a helluva romp, but he’d assumed she was clean in the disease department. Yes, that was what it had to be. He’d be a bit more choosy the next time he decided to dip his dick into unknown territory.

Dr. Warner didn’t mince words. “Your blood tests came back. I think we need a few more tests to rule out a thing or two.”

He knew it! That bitch. He couldn’t even remember her name. Once he found out, she’d be sorry she ever laid eyes on him.

Pumped up by his own diagnosis, Nick spoke. “So how bad is it? Can we cure whatever it is with a shot of penicillin?”

Dr. Warner placed his elbows on the desk, strumming his long fingers against each other. “I wish it were that simple.”

“Then what is it? Do I need an operation? Dammit, I feel fine. I told Chelsea that when she forced me to get a physical.”

“Then thank her when you go home tonight. We did a CBC screen.” The doctor opened a manila folder, thumbing through several pale pink papers. “The results are questionable. Your white count is extremely high.”

“Exactly what do you mean by ‘questionable’? And how high is high?” Nick prompted impatiently. He didn’t have time for bullshit. He had a multibillion-dollar shipping company to run. Pemberton Transport hadn’t become one of the largest shipping companies in the world by sitting on its ass or by his ass waiting for someone else to make him millions. Nick looked at the custom-made Rolex on his wrist. “I have a meeting in an hour. I’ll be lucky to make it at this rate. Just tell me what I need to do, and I’ll make the arrangements.”

Dr. Warner rolled off the numbers from his blood tests, knowing Nick wouldn’t really comprehend the data just then. He closed the folder. “Very well.” He removed a business card from a side drawer in his desk. “Schedule an appointment with Reeves as soon as possible.” He placed the business card on the edge of the desk.

Nick scrutinized the card. Dr. Warner observed his patient. The veins in Nick’s neck pulsated, and he would bet anything that his blood pressure had just shot up. He’d seen this reaction in thousands of patients. He’d felt sympathy for most of them. With Nick, it was all he could do to contain his composure. He didn’t like the man; that was the bottom line. Still, the man was his patient, and he was ethically bound to do the best he could for him, no matter the circumstances.

Dr. Warner saw that Nick’s hands shook when he extended the card to him. “What is
this?
” Even the man’s voice trembled.

Dr. Warner hated to be so blunt, but the bastard had asked for it. “It is what it is.”

“So, you’re saying I have cancer?” Nick shot back. “An oncologist
and
a hematologist? What the hell!”

The doctor cleared his throat. “I’m not saying that at all. What I’m suggesting is a specialist. Your blood tests aren’t normal. I wouldn’t want to play guessing games with your health, Nick. I think a second opinion and more extensive tests are needed before an accurate diagnosis can be made.” His malpractice insurance premiums were out of this world as it was. The last thing he needed was some hotshot business tycoon taking him to the cleaners. He’d rather play it safe.

Nick paced back and forth in front of the large desk. “So you’re saying this is out of your league?”

He really wanted to slap the son of a bitch, but ethics and etiquette prevented him from acting on his impulse. Dr. Warner had always disliked Nick’s know-it-all attitude and the man himself. The possibility that Nick had a life-threatening illness wasn’t going to change the way he felt about the obnoxious, pompous ass.

“No, not at all.”
The smug bastard,
Dr. Warner thought. “I think you need to see a specialist. I could be overreacting. I simply want to play it safe,” Dr. Warner explained, though he knew he wasn’t overreacting. Something was seriously wrong with Nick’s blood tests. Even though he detested the guy, he wanted him to receive the best medical care available. Evan Reeves was tops in his field.

Hatefully, Nick said, “So what are you waiting for? Make me a damned appointment.”

Fists clenched beneath his desk, Dr. Warner replied, “I’m afraid you’ll have to do that yourself. Or maybe you can get Chelsea to set something up for you. I wouldn’t waste a lot of time on deciding, Nick. This is serious.”

Nick stuffed the card in his pocket and stormed out of the office without saying another word. Dr. Warner suddenly felt very sorry for Chelsea.

He supposed he could have had Sheri, his receptionist, make the appointment. That was part of her duties. If it had been any other patient, he would have set it up himself. Simply put, Nicholas Pemberton rubbed him the wrong way. Always had and probably al ways would.

Squealing tires brought Nick out of his reverie. He took a deep breath, hoping to clear his head. Exhaust fumes from the line of waiting taxis forced him to cough deeply while he perused the line of vehicles, in search of his driver.

Surely Warner is mistaken,
he thought.

He couldn’t be ill. Hell, he felt better than he had in years. Though he had to admit, he had been feeling more tired than usual the past couple of weeks, but he’d attributed that to long hours at the office with hardly any sleep.

He spied his sleek black Town Car.

Tall, with a C-shaped stoop in his back, Herbert was a wiry old man with a tuft of white hair encircling an otherwise bald head. Nick opened the rear door before his chauffeur had a chance to get out and perform the duty he’d performed thousands of times for him and his father. For a brief second, Nick had an unexpected pang of compassion for the old guy; Herbert should have retired a long, long time ago.

“Where to, sir?” Herbert asked in a gravelly voice.

Good question,
Nick thought. “Just drive around for a bit. I need to think.”

“As you wish, sir.”

Nick looked at his watch as they crawled along in the heavy traffic.

Despite it being the Friday of Labor Day weekend, he’d scheduled a two o’clock meeting with his office staff. It could be postponed. That night he had to attend a banquet for incoming freshmen at NYU. He wanted to skip that, too, but he knew a few of the attending alumni. It would be in his best interest to attend just to rub el bows with a few of Wall Street’s movers and shakers. One never knew.

“Herbert, take me to the office.”

The old driver nodded his acquiescence and rammed his foot on the accelerator, weaving in and out of traffic. Twenty minutes later they stopped in front of the Empire State Building, the home of Pemberton Transport’s main offices.

Nick got out of the car, gave a casual wave to Herbert, then bolted toward the building. He didn’t want to explain where he’d been for the past hour. Stuffing his hands in his pocket, he felt the small square card Dr. Warner gave him.
Dr. Reeves.
Nick wasn’t sure if he was going to call the guy or not. He’d have him checked out first.
If,
and that was a big
if,
he was sick, he would make damned sure he had the best medical care money could buy.

After going through security like everyone else who entered the building, he rode the elevator up to the thirty-second floor. Rosa, his personal secretary, greeted him in the usual manner. A drink—coffee in the morning, tea in the afternoon—and the latest editions of the
Wall Street Journal,
the
Washington Post,
the
Japan Times,
and London’s
Financial Times
were customarily on a large coffee table, waiting for his perusal.

“Mr. Pemberton.” Rosa followed him to his private office. She placed a pot of tea on a side table next to a comfortable sofa. She’d spread the newspapers out for him to view.

Nick removed his jacket, loosened his tie, and relaxed into the plushness of the cushions. “Thank you, Rosa.”

“Will you be needing anything for this afternoon’s meeting?”

Damn! He’d almost forgotten. “Yes. I want it canceled.”

“But—”

“No buts, Rosa. Just do as I say. I’ve had some terrible news that I have to deal with. Tell the staff I’m unavailable until further notice.”

“Yes, sir.” Rosa was short and chubby, with coffee brown hair and matching eyes. She’d served him well the past fifteen years, though lately she was becoming a bit too nosy for his tastes. He’d make a note to watch her. If she got out of line, she would be replaced in minutes. Pemberton Transport’s employees were just that. Employees. As his father always said, “If you’re too nice, they’ll screw your eyes out. Too stern, and you’ll be doing the work of fifty.”

Normally, Nick tried to achieve a happy medium. However, it wasn’t a good day. He needed silence in order to make plans for the future. If something were to happen to him, the business automatically went to Chelsea. While she was smart, Nick knew she’d sell out in a heartbeat if given the opportunity. If only he’d had a son to inherit everything, one he could’ve molded to be just like him. Sadly, as long as he was married to Chelsea, it wasn’t going to happen. Besides, they were too set in their ways to bother with a child.
And too old,
he thought.

He took his personal cell phone from the bottom drawer and called Jason Vinery, a very discreet and very expensive private detective he kept on the payroll. Just in case.

Jason picked up on the first ring. “JV Investigations.”

“Two things,” Nick said.

“And a good afternoon to you, Mr. Pemberton.” The last was said with a great deal of sarcasm.

“I don’t have the luxury of time. I need you to check out a doctor.” Nick looked at the card palmed in his hand. “An Evan Reeves. An oncologist. And I want you to find out the name of a woman I recently…met. I was in Chicago. She was staying at the Fairmont. Find out her name. Then I want a background check on her. See if she’s had any sexually transmitted diseases.”

“And if she has?” Jason prompted.

“It’s none of your business,” Nick said angrily.

“I see.”

“I’m sure you
think
you do. Call my private cell when you have news. I don’t want Chelsea or Rosa getting wind of this.” The bastard was paid well for his discretion. How dare the son of a bitch question him?

Nick described the woman he wanted Jason to check out, told him the dates they were together. Then Nick lied, saying he and the doctor shared a mutual financial interest. He needed to know if the man could produce the financing their venture required.

With that temporarily taken care of, Nick drank his tea, even though it was only lukewarm. He skimmed a few headlines in the papers Rosa had laid out, but found his attention drifting.