The Successor Page 16

  Marshall always dressed nattily. Today it was a blue shirt with a white collar, French cuffs, those sporty cuff links, suspenders, a sharp tie, and a chalk-stripe suit. Too much for Christian’s taste. He liked things simple and straightforward, didn’t like all the extras. “I’m making the Laurel distributions today.”

  Marshall nodded. “I know. The word’s out all over the firm. Not much work getting done out there.” He waved toward the office door. “People are excited about it, including me. It’s the whole reason I came to Everest, the whole reason I gave up my career at KKR.” Kohlberg Kravis Roberts was another large private-equity investment firm based in Manhattan. Marshall had forfeited his small piece of the KKR partnership to join Everest. “I left a lot of money on the table over there when I joined this place, Christian,” he said, his voice rising. “I didn’t have a big piece, but even a small piece of KKR is like winning Lotto. Pissed some people off when I left there. Can’t go back, that’s for sure.”

  Marshall was making his case, trying to preempt the bad news he was clearly anticipating. Trying to make it as hard as possible for Christian to leave him out in the cold on the Laurel profits. “Jim, I want you to—”

  “Got a kid in college, too, and I—”

  “Just got divorced,” Christian cut in.

  Marshall’s expression sagged, as though that wasn’t what he’d been about to say. As if he didn’t want Christian to know about the divorce and was shocked that he did.

  “Yes, I heard.”

  “How?” Marshall asked.

  “Those things are tough to keep quiet. People talk. You know that.”

  “Damn it, did Allison tell you?”

  “No,” Christian replied flatly. He couldn’t roll over on her like that. “Jim, you aren’t getting anything out of Laurel.” It was better to get the bad news out there right up front than to let this go on any longer.

  Marshall gazed at him for several seconds, mouth wide-open, as though he were about to gasp for breath. “Are you joking?”

  “I’d never joke about something like that, Jim. It’s tough to hear, but we both know your companies haven’t been doing well lately. Which is why you didn’t get a bonus this past February.”

  Marshall gritted his teeth. “You can’t leave me out in the cold like this, Christian. I’ve been counting on this money. I’ve gotta have it.”

  “You’re going on paid leave, Jim.” That one hit Marshall like a freight train. Christian could see it all over Marshall’s face. Anger, then panic, then fear—all the emotions registering on his face one right after the other in a matter of seconds. “You need to get your life back on track, you need to dry out. I’m going to send you to one of the best clinics around, and I’m doing it on my own dime. I’ll throw you an extra three hundred grand while you’re in there so you can pay your bills. I know about everything. We’re going to get you well again.”

  “Well again? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “You know what I’m talking about. You’re a drunk.”

  Marshall leaned forward in his chair. “My God,” he whispered, “are you really that greedy? Don’t you already have enough?”

  “Wait a minute—”

  “You’re going to make up some ridiculous story about me drinking so you can take my share of the Laurel profits? That’s it, isn’t it?”

  “Don’t even go there, Jim.”

  “This way it doesn’t look so bad,” Marshall continued, eyes bulging. “How much are you taking, Christian? What, half? Four hundred fifty million?”

  “I’m not taking any of it. Not a damn cent.”

  “Bullshit! It’ll get to you somehow, probably through a charity or something. You’ll make a big donation to it for the cameras, won’t you? Get lots of pub about what a great guy you are. Picture of you in the Times handing somebody a big check and all that. Then you’ll suck every drop of it out the back door and into your pocket so you can buy another mansion somewhere.”

  Christian’s first instinct was to lay into the other man, to rake him over the coals. But he held back, reminding himself that denial was usually the first reaction. “That’ll be all, Jim,” Christian said curtly, pointing to the door. “Maybe we’ll talk later, when you’ve cooled down.”

  Marshall shot up out of his chair. “You better pay me, Christian!” he roared.

  “I told you what I’m doing, Jim. Be glad I’m not firing you.” Christian stared up at Marshall, knowing he shouldn’t say this. “We found your stash. I know you’re drinking on the job.”

  “You went in my desk?”

  The office door opened and Debbie leaned in. “Everything all right?”

  “Everything’s fine, Deb.” Christian motioned for her to close the door. “Yeah,” he admitted when she was gone, “we—no, I, went through your desk. You didn’t give me a choice.”

  “You’ll be hearing from my lawyer. I’ll bury you, you prick.”

  “Calm down,” Christian warned, his anger starting to boil over.

  Marshall smiled slyly. “There’re a lot of people who want to know about you, Christian. You shouldn’t make enemies so fast right now.”

  Christian stood up, too, not taking his eyes from Marshall’s. “Jim, go back to your office and get whatever you want to take with you. I had Debbie put a couple of boxes in there while we were talking. Pack them up, and we’ll have them delivered wherever you want. When you’re off the sauce for good, you’ll still have a place here.” The intercom went off. Christian assumed it was Debbie giving him an excuse to cut the meeting short, but he pushed the button down anyway. “Yes?”

  “Pick up.”

  Christian reached for the receiver and brought it slowly to his ear, still staring at Marshall, who hadn’t looked away either. “I’ve got everything under control in here, Deb. There’s no need to—”

  “That’s not it. That person is on the phone,” she explained. “The one you told me to put through no matter what you were doing or where you were.”

  THE AMTRAK TRAIN pulled slowly away from the Philadelphia station heading north, clattering and shrieking as it negotiated the labyrinth of switches at the head of the yard, bouncing passengers around. It would have been nice to take a speedier and more comfortable Metroliner to New York, but Melissa was surviving on a much smaller budget these days—a long way from the limousines and champagne she’d grown accustomed to in Hollywood. She couldn’t afford the extra several hundred dollars a round trip on the Metroliner would cost. Her benefactors had her on a fixed monthly allowance, and when she exceeded it, she needed a good explanation. Even when some of her expenses involved playing the role of Beth—as they would tonight. The big payday wouldn’t come until the end, they’d told her. Until then the stipend would only be enough to get by on.

  She hated being beholden to these people, but right now she had no choice. She’d put calls in to a few Hollywood agents this afternoon, before she’d boarded the train—lesser agents she knew would have done anything to represent her a few months ago—just to see if she got a nibble. But she hadn’t heard back from any of them. One of them had been in his office when she’d called—she’d heard him in the background, asking his assistant who it was. When he understood, he’d told his assistant to cut the call off immediately. Her father had been frighteningly thorough.

  Melissa gazed out the window at the urban landscape as the train picked up speed, wondering how many people out there had seen her Oscar-winning performance. Wondering if she’d ever have a chance to get back what she’d had. God, she missed California. Missed the life. It had been fun, and profitable.

  An eerie chill suddenly enveloped her like a cold fog, and she glanced around quickly, looking for whoever was staring at her. She’d gotten good at picking up on that—when someone was watching her. Probably because she’d been stalked several times in Santa Monica. But she didn’t see anyone suspicious, just an elderly woman on the other side of the train reading a magazine.

  MA
RSHALL WAS SITTING on the edge of the hotel room bed in just his boxers when the knock came. It had taken longer than he’d anticipated for her to get up here, and suddenly he was relieved—and very turned on. He jumped up and trotted across the carpet, yanked open the door, grabbed her roughly by the wrist, pulled her into the room, and pinned her against the wall beside a painting, pulling the leather purse strap from her fingers and dropping the bag to the floor. It had been a long time and the taste of her soft lips was delicious thanks to the flavored gloss she had on. They’d spent an hour at the bar downstairs, way in the back, drinking martinis and flirting, until he’d finally suggested this. To which she’d quickly agreed.

  The trendy little hotel was in TriBeCa—just a hundred rooms, used mostly by German and Austrian tourists—so he was fairly certain they wouldn’t run into anyone from Everest. Especially that bastard Christian Gillette. Still, Marshall had insisted that they leave the little table in the back corner separately, in case anyone was watching. He was worried about that these days, about being watched, and for good reason. From what he could tell, this thing was crazy, much bigger than he’d initially thought. They hadn’t given him many details, but the way they were acting and whom they claimed to be made him suspicious and careful.

  That Christian had put him on leave this afternoon was too coincidental. Christian had to suspect something. It couldn’t be just that he was pissed off about the drinking. Especially because he’d made such a big deal to his assistant Debbie about getting Marshall’s key to the Everest front door, and his magnetic swipe card that activated the elevator to the floor. Losing the key wasn’t a problem. Marshall had already made a copy of that and it was back at his apartment. But losing the swipe card was a problem. He’d tried to order another one last week, just in case Christian fired him, but it hadn’t come. He had to be able to get back into Everest, if for no other reason than to go through Christian’s desk. The men who’d hired him last week would find out quickly that he’d been dismissed. He needed to have something to trade with right now.

  She moaned as he reached beneath her pinstripe skirt, lifted it, and pulled her thong to one side, then smoothly slipped a finger into her. Her fingernails dug into his back as he moved it in and out several times quickly—she’d told him downstairs that was how she liked to start. Then he led her to the bed and pulled the clothes from her body, pushed her down onto the mattress hard, stepped out of his boxers, knelt on the bed, hiked her legs up over his shoulders, and thrust inside her.

  She arched instantly, pushing her chin back and her throat up. He ran his lips and tongue along the soft skin of her neck, then bit, causing her to moan loudly and thrust up against him several times in rapid succession. She was beautiful, but he wasn’t going to be selfish. He wanted to feel good—and he would—but there was another, more important agenda to this afternoon. Thank God he’d been flirting with her for a while, bringing her into his confidence. He’d picked just the right day, too: Laurel distribution day. She’d already been high as a kite on the money before ever getting the first sip of that martini.

  He made love to her for a long time, growing gentler and gentler by the minute. She’d consumed four tall martinis during their hour downstairs and was drunk, probably unable to have an orgasm at this point—he’d found that, like men, most women lost that ability when they had too much to drink. But unlike men—who wanted it even more when they were drunk—women didn’t care. They derived pleasure from simply being intimate.

  Marshall kissed her breasts, drawing circles around her nipples with his tongue as he pulled out of her and moved to one side, running his fingers down over her soft belly, then lower, stroking her lightly the way his wife had always wanted him to.

  “Oh, Jesus,” she murmured, kissing his forehead. “I love older men, I just love older men.”

  He whispered in her ear as he manipulated her, telling her how beautiful she was, telling her the different things he wanted to do to her. How he’d been fantasizing about her ever since he’d come to Everest. He kissed his way down her stomach, then knelt between her legs and tongued her gently for a long time, until she was moaning to him that she couldn’t take any more. He rolled her over gently and brought her to her hands and knees, pushing himself inside her again. Until she was lying flat against the mattress, arms and legs spread wide. Moving in and out more and more slowly, massaging her upper back and neck as he followed her down.

  Finally he hesitated, still half inside her, and listened to her breathe. Slow and deep, slow and deep. She’d passed out. He chuckled as he got out of bed and stole across the room to the door. There, he knelt down and went through her purse carefully, trying not to disturb anything. It had taken all his self control not to explode several times, but that self-control had paid off, he thought to himself, picking up the woman’s magnetic swipe card to the Everest elevator and holding it up in front of his face. Bingo. Now he had something to bargain with—or at least the opportunity to find something.

  He moved to a far corner of the room and picked up his suit coat, which lay across the back of a chair, and slipped the card into an inside pocket. Then he moved back to the bed, rolled the woman onto her back, and shook her chin until her eyes finally fluttered open. “Hey, wake up.” He’d gotten what he needed, now he was going to get what he wanted.

  MELISSA AWOKE with a start as a Metroliner burst past in the other direction on the next track over, causing the window she was resting her head against to shudder. She’d been having an awful dream about her father leaving her and her mother eight years ago. He’d been flaunting his bimbo in front of them, and it had turned out to be one of the girls she’d been having drinks with at Elaine’s the night of the Academy Awards.

  As she came to full consciousness, she had that eerie feeling of being watched again, but she wasn’t sure if it was just what was left of the dream. She glanced back over her shoulder just in time to see a man moving through the doorway at the end of the swaying car, headed for the bar, which was in the next car back. No way to tell how long he might have been staring at her—or who the hell he was.

  She glanced at her watch. She’d be in New York in an hour. She had to keep telling herself not to have feelings for Christian, to treat this like any other acting gig. But those gray eyes of his kept haunting her.

  She moaned and eased back in the seat, irritated with herself. It seemed as if everything were haunting her tonight.

  12

  IT WAS AN ODD FEELING for Christian. Sitting down to an intimate dinner with a woman who was probably half his age and realizing that, despite all his attempts to ignore it, there was a spark of romance for him. And realizing that he was more than just a little interested to know if there was a spark for her, too.

  Beth hadn’t been specific about her age—she’d joked about the big 3-0 being right around the corner—but Christian figured she couldn’t be more than twenty-five. She was probably trying to make herself seem older so the age difference wouldn’t loom so large. Wouldn’t be that big gorilla sitting in the corner that neither of them wanted to talk about.

  Beth hadn’t been specific about a lot of things. Maybe “not forthcoming”—as Quentin had put it—was a better way to describe how she’d been on the way back to Washington in the car. Quentin had said something about how evasive she’d acted as soon as they’d dropped her off. Said the hour they’d spent with her had reminded him of times he’d tried to interrogate captured enemy intelligence officers: She’d never directly refused to answer any of their questions, but she’d always managed to divert the focus to something else, turn the conversation back on them before they could say anything or tease them about how they were so interested in her. She was mysterious—which only made her more attractive to Christian. He had to admit that to himself. Beautiful and mysterious. A spellbinding combination.

  He’d chosen a small Italian place on the Upper West Side for dinner. He knew the owner—had personally loaned the guy money to start the place a fe
w years back—so he had his own table in a quiet corner whenever he wanted it and, more important, he had privacy. No one would bother them while they were eating. No chance one of the waiters would tip off a cameraman at the Post or the Daily News that he was there so the guy could snap a picture as he came out, either. Which had happened a few times at other places.

  Much to the delight of people at Everest—and much to his own irritation—he’d turned up constantly over the last few years on the city’s most eligible bachelor lists. So, like others on the list, he sometimes found himself the object of the paparazzi, each one trying to be the first to break the story of whom he was with. It wasn’t anything like the chaos that followed movie stars and pop singers when they went out in Manhattan, but it was still annoying.

  He shuddered at the thought of a photo of Beth and him making it into one of the daily newspapers. Shuddered even harder thinking about the captions: “Gillette Robs the Cradle” or “Girlfriend…or Daughter?” His investors would be shocked, and he’d be explaining the pictures for months.

  So the question that kept gnawing at him was, why was he here? Beth Garrison was at least twenty years younger than him, and he didn’t know a damn thing about her. Sure, he loved mystery, but he could find that a lot of places. And despite the privacy he felt confident he’d have at this place, there was still a chance that someone might recognize him and the word would get out. Then he’d have all that explaining to do—including to Allison. And the explaining to Allison wouldn’t have anything to do with the age difference.

  There wasn’t anything official between Allison and him, but they both felt a deep affection and attraction for each other. They’d never actually said that to each other, but they both knew it was there. And there’d been a kind of unofficial understanding between them that they wouldn’t see anyone else, at least not regularly, without telling the other—which was what had bothered him about her being so up on Jim Marshall’s divorce. It made him think that she was closer to Marshall than she was letting on, maybe even dating him.