Читать книгу The Bravo Billionaire - Christine Rimmer - Страница 10

Jonas dropped back to his chair as soon as the blonde in the orange suit bolted from the room. There was nothing to be gained by following her right then, nothing left, at that moment, to use on her save physical force. And contrary to what a lot of people believed, Jonas Bravo never used physical force. He only let them think that he might.

A few days, she had said. She would get back to him in a few days.

What the hell, Jonas wondered, was a few days? Two? Three? Four?

He felt caged. Caught. Bested.

Made to wait.

He sat alone in the conference room for several minutes, giving his frustration a chance to abate, at least minimally. Eventually it occurred to him that Ambrose would be ducking back in shortly, just to check and make sure he hadn’t torn the little dog groomer limb from limb.

Since Jonas felt zero inclination to deal with Ambrose again right then, he left the lawyer’s offices and went to Bravo, Incorporated, which was housed in the Bravo Building, a towering forty-story structure of pale granite and dark glass in downtown L.A.

He had a meeting at three with the project manager of a certain upscale shopping center that was due to open in six weeks. It was a project in which he’d made a significant investment of Bravo, Incorporated funds.

The meeting lasted two hours. When it was over, Jonas hardly remembered a thing that had been said. He kept thinking about the kennel keeper, about that word, few, about what she had really meant when she said it.

About how damn long she intended to make him wait.

After the meeting, there were calls to make and papers to sign. He spent an hour and a half closeted with one of his assistants, going over correspondence and contracts he needed prepared.

By seven, he had had enough.

He was supposed to meet the CEO of a certain Internet startup group for dinner at L’Orangerie. But he knew it would be pointless. Right then, he couldn’t have cared less if every decent tech stocks opportunity out there passed him right by. He had his secretary call and reschedule the appointment for Thursday night.

After all, Thursday was three days away. He’d have his answer from the dog groomer by then—wouldn’t he? Weren’t three days a few? He flexed his thick, powerful fingers, thinking how pleasant it would be to wrap them around Emma Lynn Hewitt’s neck and begin to squeeze.

Before he left his office, he downloaded the file on the Hewitt woman into his laptop. There might be something in it he had missed, something he could use to get her to start seeing things his way and to do so as quickly as possible.

Jonas kept files on all of his mother’s various causes and charities, as well as on her friends and acquaintances. In spite of what had happened thirty years ago, when she’d lost a son and a husband within months of each other and spent four years in psychiatric care as a result, Blythe Bravo had ended up a trusting soul. She was also a person who felt a responsibility to leave the world a better place than she’d found it. Jonas felt no such responsibility. And he made it a point not to trust anyone until they had proven they were worthy of trust.

He’d had the Hewitt woman investigated five years ago, when she’d first popped up in his mother’s life. Once he’d read the report provided by his investigators, he’d come to the conclusion that, while she rubbed him the wrong way personally, Emma Lynn Hewitt was probably harmless.

Harmless. He scowled as he thought the word.

And he felt bested again.

By a blonde with big breasts and inappropriate shoes.

On the way home, in the quiet back seat of the limo, he studied the file. He was still going over it when he reached Angel’s Crest, the hilltop Mediterranean-style house in Bel Air where Bravos had lived for three generations. Jonas owned a number of houses and apartments, among them a hunting lodge in Idaho, a small villa in the south of France and a penthouse on Fifth Avenue. But he considered Angel’s Crest his home.

Palmer, who ran the house, greeted him at the door. “Good evening, sir.”

Jonas nodded. “Palmer.” He handed the butler his briefcase and the laptop. “Put these in the study, will you?”

“Certainly.”

He told Palmer that he’d have a light meal in the small dining room in one hour and then he climbed the curving iron staircase to the second floor.

He visited his sister in the nursery. As usual lately, she babbled nonstop. It was all two-year-old talk, that phase of language development consisting in the main of instructions and demands.

“Jonah”—she always called him Jonah, he assumed because the “s” at the end of his name was as yet beyond her—“come here,” and “Jonah, sit there,” and “I like this story. Read it to me.”

He felt better. Soothed. Just to see her round, smiling face, her mop of dark curls and those big brown eyes. To know that she was safe. Always, he would keep her safe. He employed round-the-clock security at Angel’s Crest. What had happened to his brother would never happen to the sprite.

She did say, “Jonah, I want Mama,” looking up at him solemnly, with absolute trust—and a sadness that tore at his heart.

He took her on his lap and explained for—what was it? The tenth time? The eleventh?—that Mama had been very sick and had to go away and would not be coming back.

Claudia, the nanny, reappeared at eight-thirty with a shy smile and a questioning look.

“Bath time,” he told Mandy. “Be good for Claudia.”

With a minimum of fuss, Mandy allowed him to say good-night.

He stopped in his private suite of rooms for a quick shower and a change of clothes, then he went on down to the smaller of the house’s two dining rooms, where Palmer served him his meal. He ate, reminding himself not to dwell on how damn huge and quiet even the small dining room seemed without Blythe’s easy laughter and teasing chatter to liven things up a little.

The food, as always, was excellent. He told Palmer to be sure to give the cook his compliments.

It was after ten when Jonas retreated to his study, a comfortable room of tall, well-filled walnut bookcases, arching leaded-glass windows, intricate crown moldings and big, inviting chairs upholstered in green and blood-red velvet. He sat at his inlaid mahogany desk, opened the laptop and dug into the file on Emma Hewitt again.

What he read didn’t tell him any more than he already knew. She was an orphan from Texas with two years in a nowhere college under her belt. At the time he’d had her followed she had been twenty-one, working the morning shift at the restaurant where she’d met his mother and keeping a stray cat and an iguana in her studio apartment, unbeknownst to the landlord. There had been no boyfriend at the time, though Jonas thought he remembered Blythe telling him there had been someone last year—or was it the year before?

And if there had been someone, was that someone still around? Jonas shrugged. Since he didn’t have a clue what the woman planned to do about Blythe’s will, he supposed, at this point, that the possibility of a boyfriend was pretty much a nonissue.

The file—or, technically, the series of files—contained a number of pictures snapped on the sly by one of the detectives he’d hired. There she was in her little white blouse and short black skirt, grinning at a customer, her order pad poised, pen ready to roll. And there she was at some Hollywood nightspot, with what looked like a strawberry daiquiri in front of her and a wide, happy smile on her face. And at Venice Beach, wearing cutoff shorts, a skimpy little nothing of a top and inline skates, being pulled along by a high stepping, beautifully groomed pair of Afghan hounds. In that picture, he couldn’t help but notice, her legs looked especially long, her breasts particularly high and full.

Jonas sat back for a minute and rubbed at his eyes. Full breasts and long legs, he reminded himself, were not the issue here.

He looked at the screen again, began bringing up the pictures one by one, noting as he did so that the love of animals came through good and clear. The cat and the iguana. The Afghan hounds. A shot taken in a pet store, with a parakeet on her head and a mynah bird on her shoulder, one at what looked like Griffith Park with someone’s tiny Chihuahua balanced on her outstretched hand.

Jonas stared off in the direction of the limestone mantel, thinking of Bob and Ted, the pair of miniature Yorkshire terriers his mother had owned. Though as a general rule, Jonas had no liking for small dogs, Bob and Ted had surprised him. They were smart and obedient and not particularly prone to yipping. And they’d been fiercely dedicated to their mistress.

Not too long ago, Bob and Ted had moved in with Emma Hewitt. Blythe, in the hospital then for what would be her final stay, had told Jonas she wanted the woman to have the dogs. He hadn’t objected. He’d figured that the kennel keeper was an appropriate choice to inherit the Yorkies. At that point he hadn’t known that the Yorkies weren’t everything his mother intended for Emma Lynn Hewitt to inherit.

Jonas scrolled through the personal information file. The phone numbers had not been updated. There was the number of the deli where she’d worked five years ago, and the number of that studio apartment in East Hollywood where she’d lived when she first came to Los Angeles.

He had the current numbers somewhere, didn’t he? The business number, at least, should be easy enough to find in the phone book or online.

But he knew where he would be certain to find them both.

He got his palm planner from his briefcase, left the study and went upstairs again, this time to his mother’s suite. In her white, pink and gold sitting room, which Blythe had recently redone in grand Louis XVI style, he picked up the phone. As he’d expected, she had the kennel keeper on autodial. There were three numbers: home, mobile and business.

Jonas wasn’t about to talk to the Hewitt woman on his mother’s phone in his mother’s rooms with his mother’s things around him, reminding him all too poignantly of what he’d told his little sister earlier that evening: that Blythe was not coming back.

He found a white leather address book in a drawer beneath the phone and got the numbers from it, entering all three in the palm planner. Then he returned to his study.

He sat down at his desk again, picked up the phone and glanced at the serpentine clock on the mantel. It was nearing eleven. He called the home number.

She answered on the third ring. “Hello?” He heard fuzziness in her voice, a slight slurring, as if he’d wakened her. An image flashed through his mind: the kennel keeper in bed, wearing something skimpy and eyeflayingly bright, the Yorkies snuggled in close, one on either side of her.

He blinked to clear the image. “How long is ‘a few days’?” he asked in a gentle and reasonable tone.

Evidently, the sound of his voice was enough to banish sleep, because she said his name—his given name—flatly, all traces of fuzziness gone. “Jonas.”

“How long is ‘a few days’?”

He heard her take in a breath and sigh as she let it out.

He began again. “I asked how—”

“I heard you.” She heaved another sigh. “I’m sorry. I just don’t know yet. I have to think this over. I have to…consider what all this will mean.”

“What’s to consider?”

“Plenty. I know you don’t believe me, but this was a pretty big shock to me, too.”

He tapped his palm planner lightly on the desktop. And then he set it down and stared at it, not really seeing it, reluctantly coming to grips with the fact that he did believe her. He’d seen the look of sick astonishment on her face when he’d entered that conference room and she looked up from the new will. He’d wanted to think she was in on his mother’s scheme. But now he’d had some time to mull it over, he supposed he had to admit that that angle just didn’t add up.

If she’d been in on it, why would she be giving him the runaround now?

She wouldn’t—unless she was hoping he’d make her an offer.

Fine. An offer, then. “How much do you want?”

She didn’t say anything.

So he went ahead and started laying it out for her. “Sign an agreement giving up all claim to my sister and I’ll pay you—”

“Don’t even tell me.”

“Why not?”

“Because I can’t take any money from you.”

“Of course you can take money from me.”

“No, I cannot.”

“Why?”

“Blythe was my friend. I can’t take money to betray my friend.”

“This is no betrayal.”

“To me it would be. I’m sorry. I won’t take your money.”

“It seems to me, Ms. Hewitt, that if there has been any betrayal in this situation, it’s already occurred.”

“Pardon me?”

“The way I see it, my mother betrayed all of us. You. Me. And Mandy, too.”

“Your mama did not betray anybody.” There was indignation in her voice now. Indignation with a Texas twang.

Jonas rubbed the bridge of his nose. He was getting a headache between his eyes. “All right. Perhaps I’ve used the wrong word. How about tricked? Is that better? Or maybe just plain old screwed.”

“Blythe Bravo did not—”

“She screwed us, Ms. Hewitt. Or at least, she screwed me. And my sister.”

“That is not true. Your mama absolutely without a doubt wanted only the best for you. And for your sister.”

“The best. That would be you?”

There was silence on the line again. Finally, the dog groomer said softly, “Well, I guess your mama thought so, now didn’t she?”

Jonas picked up his palm planner and then set it down. He looked at the spines of the books on a shelf about ten feet from where he sat—all gold-tooled leather, beautifully bound. A number of harsh remarks were passing through his brain, things to the effect that he did not consider a woman who’d been raised in a trailer in some place called Alta Lobo, Texas, to be the best thing for him.

He wisely did not let those remarks get out of his mouth.

“So what do we do now, Ms. Hewitt?”

“Well, I don’t know yet.”

“Ms. Hewitt, you are trying my patience.”

“You know, I got that. I got that loud and clear.”

“I could make you a very rich woman.”

“Well, that is real nice. But no thanks. I mean it. I truly do. I will call you, as soon as I can make up my mind what to do.”

Right then, he heard one short, sharp bark. “Oh, sweetie,” she said. For a minute, he thought she was talking to him. But then she did talk to him, and he realized the difference. “That was Ted. He says hi.”

Damn her. She had the dogs. She wasn’t getting him or his sister.

“You have yourself a nice night now,” she said.

“Ms. Hewitt—”

“’Bye…” The line went dead.

Jonas pulled the phone from his ear and stared at the thing. She had hung up on him.

Nobody hung up on him.

Except, apparently, for Emma Lynn Hewitt.

He called again the next night. She told him that no, she had not made up her mind yet.

He hung up on her that time, because he knew if he didn’t that he would end up raising his voice. Jonas Bravo was not a man who ever needed to raise his voice.

After that, he gave up on phone calls. For two entire days he did nothing about the problem, though it seemed to him that the whole time a clock ticked away relentlessly inside his head, counting down the seconds, the minutes, the hours, moving him closer to the date by which he had to be married to Emma Lynn Hewitt—or possibly lose Mandy.

By the time those two days had passed, it was Thursday night, ten days since Blythe’s death, eleven days before the deadline set out in the will. And three days since the meeting at McAllister, Quinn and Associates.

Three days. If that wasn’t a damn few, he didn’t know what was.

And he’d come up with another angle, another offer he could make her.

Friday, he spent almost three hours closeted with his top corporate attorneys, getting the whole thing in order, lining out exactly what he was willing to do and how it would be accomplished. One of his secretaries typed the thing up.

By then, it was after four. He put the finished prospectus in his briefcase and called for the limousine. A half an hour later, his driver pulled up in front of Emma Hewitt’s place of business in Beverly Hills. The driver got out and opened Jonas’s door for him.

Jonas paused on the sidewalk to reluctantly approve the clean, simple lines of the building. The large plaque on the wall by the big glass door gave the establishment’s name: PetRitz. And a brief description of the services provided: Grooming, Boarding, Animal Care. Not a billboard or a tacky picture of a pink poodle in sight. He gave Ms. Hewitt no credit for this clear display of good taste. In Beverly Hills, tackiness was not permitted, at least not when it came to places of business. No billboards, no neon, no cheesy advertising art of any kind.

Jonas knew that it was his mother’s money and influence that had landed the dog groomer in such a prime location. And it was Blythe’s connections with wealthy animal owners all over the Southland that had brought the Hewitt woman a huge clientele right from the first.

But he also realized that it was the Hewitt woman herself who had somehow managed to keep all those fickle, demanding, big-spending pet lovers coming back. From the day it opened its doors, PetRitz had been a success. Everyone who was anyone took their precious pedigreed pooches to Emma Lynn Hewitt’s exclusive pet salon.

And Jonas had been standing on the sidewalk long enough.

He strode up to the glass door and went inside, where he was instantly bombarded with color and sound.

The waiting room boasted hibiscus-pink walls, lots of big, soft chairs and a skylight overhead that let in plenty of light. There were plants everywhere, palms and huge, trailing coleus, ficus trees, giant ferns and big-leaved begonias. Among the greenery, there were several fish tanks in which bright-colored tropical fish darted about and a couple of huge terrariums where large reptiles basked under glowing heat lamps. A few customers were waiting, sitting in the fat chairs, looking prosperous and contented, thumbing through copies of Pet Life and People. Their animals waited with them. A dignified Irish setter, patient on a leash. A Burmese cat hissing in a carrier. A parrot that kept whistling and asking, “What’s the matter, pretty baby?”

Music was playing. The Dixie Chicks, he thought. Which figured.

And he could also hear bird sounds—not including the parrot. Piped in or real? Had to be recorded. He didn’t see any birds perched among the greenery.

There was a reception counter opposite the door. Behind it, at a computer, sat a plus-sized young woman with hair the same color as the counter: jet-black. The young woman wore a smock the same screaming pink as the walls.

Jonas crossed the room and stood right in front of her. She punched up something on the keyboard, scowled at the screen, then looked up at him, ditching the scowl for a welcoming smile. “Hi there. Need some help?” She wore a rhinestone in her nose, three studs in her left ear and four in her right. On her ample pink bosom rode a black lacquer name tag with pink metallic lettering. Pixie, it read.

“Well, Pixie. I’d like to speak with Emma Lynn.”

The black brows inched closer together on the wide forehead. “Wadeaminute. I know who you are. Blythe’s son. The one they call the Bravo Billionaire.”

“Call me Jonas. Please.”

Pixie beamed in pleasure. “All right. I’ll do that. Jonas.”

“May I speak with Emma Lynn?”

Pixie heaved a huge sigh and her rather close-set eyes grew scarily moist. “I’m so sorry—about Blythe. She was the greatest.”

“Yes. There was no one quite like her. Now…would you get me Emma Lynn?”

“Oh. Yeah, sure.” Pixie got up from her chair and went to a black door on her side of the counter. “I’ll tell her you’re here. Won’t be a sec.”

Pixie was gone for more than a sec.

Approximately two minutes after she disappeared, another woman in a pink smock came through the black door and took Pixie’s place behind the counter. Jonas continued to wait, moving to the side every time a client approached to pick up a pet or drop one off.

It occurred to him after he’d been standing there for about five minutes, listening to twittering birds and the Dixie Chicks and then after the Dixie Chicks, to Sheryl Crow, that he felt like a salesman. Someone in pet supplies, briefcase in hand, waiting for the owner to come out and grant him a few minutes of her precious time.

Waiting.

His least favorite activity.

And he’d been doing it a lot lately. Way too much.

Because Emma Lynn Hewitt wouldn’t make up her damn mind.

There was another black door on his side of the counter, on the same wall as the one behind it. A third woman in a pink smock came out of that door twice to take pets from the people at the counter. It didn’t take a Mensa candidate to figure out that the two doors led to the same hallway.

When the second hand on the big wall clock behind the counter had gone around for the seventh time since Pixie had left him, Jonas decided he’d had enough. He turned around and went through the door on his side of the counter.

“Uh. Excuse me,” the woman behind the counter called after him. “You can’t go back there….”

He ignored her and pushed the door shut behind him.

He was in a long, pink hallway, with three black doors on either side, and one at each end. Sheryl Crow and the birds continued to serenade him.

He stepped across the hall and pushed open a door. It was some kind of lounge, with counters and a refrigerator, a coffeemaker, a couple of couches against the wall, a round table and several chairs. Yet another pink-smocked woman sat at the table sipping coffee and reading a paperback novel. She looked up and frowned at him.

“Excuse me,” he said, and pulled the door shut again.

He tried the door next to it.

An office, with a desk and a big pink swivel chair. Lots of plants, just as in the reception room. Pictures on the bookcases—one of his mother, his sister and the Yorkies out by the pool at Angel’s Crest.

Her office, he thought. But where the hell was she? He ducked out of that room and shut that door, too.

Before he could open another one, Pixie emerged from the door at the far end of the hall.

She frowned at him reproachfully. “Jonas. I said I’d be right back.”

He walked toward her. “Where is she, Pixie?”

Pixie stopped looking reproachful and started looking nervous. She backed up against the door she’d just come through. “Uh. I’m sorry. Right now, she can’t be disturbed.”

“She can’t.”

“No.”

Jonas halted about two feet from where Pixie stood blocking the door at the end of the hall. “Why not?”

“She, uh, she’s working with an especially sensitive client at the moment. She told me to tell you she’ll be getting in touch with you real soon.”

“Real soon?”

“That’s right.”

Jonas flexed his fingers around the handle of his briefcase. “Pixie.”

“Uh. Yeah?”

“I want you to move away from that door.”

Pixie’s plump chin quivered and the rhinestone in her nose seemed to be blinking at him. “No, I can’t do that.”

“Yes, you can. And I think you should.” He took the three steps that were necessary to bring him right up close to her.

She looked at him and he looked at her.

“I’m not a very nice man, Pixie. Do you understand?”

Slowly, she nodded.

“Get out of my way.”

Pixie maintained the stare-down for another ten seconds. That was all she could take. Then, with a small moan, she sidled to the right.

“Thank you.” Jonas opened the door.

Beyond it, the walls were cobalt blue with white trim and the floor was black-and-white linoleum, a classic checkerboard pattern. A pink-smocked Emma Lynn Hewitt stood by a metal-topped table with some sort of adjustable pole attached to it, a noose at the end of the pole. On the table, below the dangling noose, sat a dog. A very small dog—perhaps seven inches tall and six pounds, max. The dog had long, soft-looking caramel-colored fur and bright, slightly bulging eyes.

Jonas registered these details in the first second or two after he entered the room, right before the dog attacked him.