Читать книгу Rules of Engagement - Bonnie Winn K. - Страница 9

NOW THAT HIS TEAM was searching for the designs, Cole felt marginally better. But they had to show up soon or the bid to Landry Industries would be closed. He’d begun work on the bid when Landry was still debating the new lines, before they’d secured their financing. Now that Landry had gone public, they had deep wells of cash. And Cole wanted some of it to bail out Harrington.

He glanced at the mariner clock. But the hands hung uselessly ever since he’d slammed the desk the day before. He regretted the impulse. His employees had given it to him as a gift to celebrate their first year in business. He wasn’t a particularly sentimental man, but he viewed the clock as a good luck token. He’d get it fixed. No sense pissing off the Fates.

He logged on to the network computer. His e-mail in-box was already full. Hopefully some of it was good news.

Dan stuck his head in Cole’s open door. “Do you know where Mark is?”

“Haven’t seen him this morning.”

The finance officer frowned and, obviously in a hurry, ducked back out and was on his way before Cole could question him.

The bank of phones that connected reception to the line supervisors in the plant were ringing incessantly. Then the outside lines started ringing as well.

“Marcia?” Cole called for the receptionist as he strode down the corridor. Couldn’t anyone be bothered to answer the damn phones?

The reception area was empty except for a woman he didn’t recognize, and the phone lines buzzed out of control. This wasn’t like Marcia. Ignoring the visitor, he walked behind the counter, and took over the switchboard.

“Can I help you?” he asked, once there was a pause in the phone calls.

“Actually, I—”

The phone rang again. “Just a minute.”

She pulled a card from her purse and laid it on the counter.

Finally, the board quieted. “Sorry about that. The receptionist is supposed to have been here by now.”

As he stood, Marcia rushed in, frazzled-looking. “I’m sorry. My car wouldn’t start.” She glanced at Tess. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

“No. Just got here.”

“I called the auto club, but it always takes forever. I’m lucky to have such an understanding boss.” Marcia glanced at Tess. “Did Mr. Harrington take care of you?”

When she heard his name, Tess stood and addressed him. “Actually, I want to talk to you.”

Just what he needed. But the woman had been waiting patiently. He gestured to a chair in the reception area.

“I’d prefer to speak with you in private.”

He didn’t really have time for this, but he shrugged and quickly escorted her down the long hall into his office. He pointed to a pair of comfortable leather chairs.

“I’m afraid you have the advantage,” he began. “I don’t know who you are.”

“Tess Spencer.”

“And you’re with…?”

“I work in my family’s business. But that’s not why I’m here. Well, in a roundabout way it is.” She paused. “I’m just making my explanation more confusing.” She held up a laptop computer, then placed it on the table that separated them. “I’m here because of this computer.”

He barely glanced at it. He didn’t need to hear another sales pitch. “Our office manager takes care of all our purchasing needs.” He reached for the phone. “I can call her, pass along your—”

“You misunderstand. This laptop… It belongs to Cole Harrington.”

He tensed, his amiable smile disappearing. He picked up the computer, recognizing the distinctive gouges. “The one with my schematics,” he muttered beneath his breath. “How did you get it? Who are you with? Alton?”

“No. Last night, I went to an auction. I bid on a lot and this computer was in it.”

“You’re telling me you bought my computer at an auction?”

“I hope this isn’t difficult for you,” she said gently.

“Difficult?”

“I don’t know… I mean…did Cole survive the war?”

He cleared his throat. “Live and in person.”

“So you’re…”

“Cole. What makes you think I didn’t survive? And how did you know I was in the war?”

“I opened your letters.”

“You read my letters?”

“Well, I didn’t mean to—”

“Reading isn’t an involuntary response.”

Tess turned to face him directly. “No, but—”

“Okay. How much do you want for the computer?”

“Money?”

“Yes. Why else would you be here? You know my designs are on the hard drive.”

Shocked, Tess stared at him. “I thought if you hadn’t survived, your family would want these letters in case you hadn’t gotten to a land line to send them. I would’ve wanted my brother’s. But I’m sorry if reading them was an invasion of your privacy. And I’m sorry you thought I’d sell them to the highest bidder.” Not waiting for his reply, she left his office. She marched down the hall and through the reception area.

Back in her Lexus, she ignored the shrill response of her SUV as she put it in gear and sped out of the parking lot.

Jerk! She should have kept the damn computer. And here she thought she’d read the letters of the last sensitive man on the planet.

“MARCIA!” COLE BARKED into the intercom an hour later.

“I’m not deaf,” she reminded him.

“Did that woman leave a card?”

“I’m guessing your meeting didn’t go well?”

“The card?”

“I’ll be right there.”

He continued to pore over the computer until Marcia appeared a few minutes later, waving the card at him. “Tess Spencer of the Spencers Restaurants.”

The well-known name registered with him as he took the card.

“Was she here to see if we want to participate in one of their fund-raisers? They’re always for really good causes.”

Cole didn’t bother telling her that Tess’s intentions were his business. Marcia had cheerfully meddled since her first day at Harrington Engineering. And because she was wise and kind, not to mention old enough to be his mother, he accepted her small intrusions.

“Not about fund-raisers.”

Marcia frowned. “Wasn’t there something in the papers about their family a while ago?”

He hadn’t been back in the country long enough to catch up on the news, local or national. “Marcia, check with the auction house and see what we’ve sent over in the past few weeks.”

“Sure, boss.”

Cole continued combing through the directories of the notebook computer he’d used to write letters to the families of his slain and wounded men.

Even though tactical headquarters housed government-issue computers, he, like a lot of officers, had packed a small PC when he was deployed. Rotations were longer than they used to be and this had sometimes been his only connection to home. And when his unit was able to link up with a land line, he’d let his men use it for e-mail.

The letters all seemed to be there. But the designs were gone. Wiped so clean they weren’t recoverable. He knew how to look for their prints. But they’d been thoroughly, professionally erased.

So what did Tess Spencer and Alton Tool have to do with each other?

After a quick knock, Marcia popped inside his office. “Here’s a copy of the only manifest this month from the auction house.”

Scanning the items, he saw that a notebook computer wasn’t listed. Of course not.

Marcia held out another paper.

“What’s this?”

“While I was on the Web I looked up the Spencers in the Chronicle archives.” Her graying eyebrows wriggled with just enough intent to let him know she wouldn’t leave the subject alone.

He started to skim the page. But as the content registered, he slowed down, absorbing the details of the article. It reported the death of Tess’s brother. Sobered, he read about David’s background, his contributions to the community, his close relationship to his family, especially his twin sister.

How had this woman who’d lost a brother in Iraq come to own his computer?

“TESS, IS THAT YOU, HONEY?” Her mother’s voice reached to the restaurant foyer.

“Yes, Mom. I picked up the mail.” She caught up to her mother in the kitchen.

Judith Spencer hugged her, enveloping Tess in the comforting smells of cooking, along with her trademark Chanel cologne. Still attractive at sixty-two, Judith’s dark hair was streaked with far more gray than it had been only months before. The lines in her face had also deepened, but it was her eyes that betrayed her pain. Eyes that changed from gray to green or blue depending on what she wore or the colors around her. Tess had inherited her unusual eyes.

And much of her intuition as well.

Judith stroked Tess’s long dark hair. “What’s wrong?”

Tess shook off her annoyance. “Just more traffic than I expected.”

Judith studied her a moment longer, but she didn’t press. There’d been so much discussion since David’s death they often felt talked out. “It’s quiet here this morning.”

“Dad?”

“He should be here soon. He’s at the linen company, straightening out the order.”

“I told you I’d do that,” Tess protested. The linen supplier was under new management and they’d fouled up the orders for all three locations.

“He needs to keep busy,” Judith explained. “You’re back and forth between here and Dav—your restaurant so much I don’t know when you sleep.”

“At night,” she replied with a smile. “Something not only smells good, it smells different. Are you experimenting?”

“I just got some young peas, picked yesterday. I want a sauce that isn’t too heavy, but that’ll enhance their sweetness.”

“You’ll create something wonderful, you always do. Although Peter is the chef if you run short on time.”

“Or energy, you mean. Tess, don’t worry about us so much. We’re not fragile seniors.”

“As though you could ever be considered senior!”

Judith laughed. “When you turned twenty-one I couldn’t imagine how I’d aged that much. Now, if I could just turn the clock back to then…”

Tess bit her lower lip. If only they could. “I know you’re not fragile, Mom. You and Dad have been incredibly strong.”

Judith took her hand. “It runs in the family.”

Tess felt a rush of appreciation for her parents. They’d been running the landmark Spencers for years now, scarcely slowing down following David’s death. In the past she’d always believed they were invincible. “Then let me be strong now.”

“I don’t think I can stop you. Want to taste the sauce?”

Tess grinned. “Absolutely. Are you going to share the recipe or is it a landmark speciality?”

“I think you can twist my arm. Let me just check on the seafood delivery.”

Tess pinched a fresh croissant from a tray on the stainless steel counter, then sat on a stool, dangling her feet as she had when she was a child waiting for one of her parents. She supposed she could get to be eighty and still feel that way in the downtown Spencers. It was the original restaurant in the family business, established by Tess’s great-grandparents in 1920.

Back then, being right in the heart of the booming petroleum capital, it had appealed to the newly rich oil barons who claimed it as their own.

By the 1940s it was a hub for celebrities in all fields. The Second World War only enhanced its reputation when the three Spencer brothers went to war and only one, Tess’s grandfather, returned. Heroes, Tess thought bitterly.

Continuing the legacy, Tess’s grandfather had opened two additional locations, one in the prestigious Galleria area and one in nearby Galveston.

Patrons spoke of the original restaurant’s unmatched ambiance. Beyond the shimmer of formal china, well-polished silver and flawless linen, Spencers retained its classic Deco style. There was a solidity and elegance to the cherrywood walls and leather seating that only time could produce. Decades.

Tess and David had been groomed in the business since they were able to stand on a stool and reach the kitchen counter. She could remember coming in before opening time as a child, the familiar smells of the restaurant itself—lemon wax, and a mysterious blend of wonderful sauces from the kitchen.

She and David had been taught early on to respect the furnishings, the employees and the patrons—not necessarily in that order. They’d also been taught to love the business, to depend on its history.

But now she wasn’t so sure what to count on. So much had changed…

More than she’d been able to accept.